|Jan/Feb 2020 Poetry|
Said to a Drowned Daddy Longlegs
Oh. Oh. Oh.
I thought you were a wisp of grass
brought into the shower on my feet.
Yet, I wondered, for you looked
like summer grass, brown and dry.
In March, no grass is dried and dead.
To see what you actually were,
I peered long and close, as I should've
before causing closeted rain.
I would have shut off the nozzle!
Your parachute-string legs could have
climbed the air to safety. Instead,
they lie in wilted length,
roots from your drowned body,
orderly, thin, whole.
I leave you to dry in death,
in return to pre-genital quiescence.