“Mulling and Poring and Disbanding” by Kelli Lage

Mulling and Poring and Disbanding

His longlegs crawl up your neck
He, because bones tighten.
Taunting my future; my stance.

Nosediving on skin like dissembling fingers
trying to scoop up meaning in tulips posing
next to rotted window sills.

His eight legs thump in slow motion
each stomp a notch in my floured gut.
He knows me and doesn’t care.
He claims man and man should make
me have a visceral reaction.

But instead, I’m wondering when I can
lay on the ground without being injured or out of breath.
Because labor is chest pain and I need to cradle grass,
would if my insides were in sync.

The spider is almost to your neck,
conjuring moments from still air.
Consider not brushing him off at all.
Too awake to say fuck it. Too tired to
give you a family history lesson.

It’s headed toward your ear.
Probably to lay eggs.
And God oh God, I can’t raise babies,
can barely feed myself in a house
full of abundance.

And how many eggs can a spider lay
in one burst of birth?
Tens? Hundreds?
Too chronically anxious to find out.
Too tranced to clip your collar.

And if I have to raise these babies,
what if, what if, what if
crusted stove corners, dogs panting on the porch
borderline depressed, borderline thrilled

I swat your back,
too soured and sourced for niceties.

Children find home
in grass taller than fear.

KElli lage

Kelli Lage is an assistant poetry editor at Bracken Magazine and a Best of the Net- and Pushcart-nominated poet. She is the author of Early Cuts and I'm Glad We Did This. Lage's work has appeared in Stanchion Zine, Maudlin House, The Lumiere Review, Welter Journal, and elsewhere. Website: www.KelliLage.com.

Headshot: Kelli Lage

Photo Credit: Staff