The Plastic Cup I Brought Down Over the Spider

by Tina Posner

Emptied to last drops of standing ghost water,
the cup a damp prison, the prisoner in a state
of surprise—a spider airlifted outside,
released into a heat-stressed box of herbs—
mint, oregano, leggy, bolted stems. I lose sight
of her with my two measly eyes and
the dizzying array of focal points that drift
and won’t tune. This spider evicted—
unaware of the home she wandered into—
never knew who, what, or why—when
walls came down, a slick card slid underfoot,
replacing cool cork with hot dirt. That’s how
grief catches us, a scratched plastic blur
coming between our sight and the world.
No matter the number, our eyes search.
With all each hand, we feel for an opening,
the clarity of daylight, an illuminating sky.
You spin your thread, tiny seamstress.
I’ll wield the scissors blindly.