Moyra Donaldson - Phobia #14

 

Phobia

                There was an old woman

                Who swallowed a spider
                That wriggled and wriggled
               And tickled inside her.

I’m not as freaked by them

as I used to be, the black
vicious looking little one
on the white sheet I brought
in from the line today –

I coped with it fine,

shook it into a glass,
carried it back outside
and set it free
with barely a shudder.

 The leggy ones

around the back door,
I can pass with hardly
a glance and if any
get stuck in the bath

I drape a towel for them

to climb up, escape,
and I don’t worry –
at least not too much –
that they might make it

 from there to anywhere

in the house; if one crosses
the floor of an evening
I raise my legs
onto the couch,

try to forget about it.

I’m never going to love them,
but I’m learning
to live with them
and refusing to believe

 the story – urban myth

I hope – about how many
you swallow over a lifetime,
asleep at night
with your mouth open.