Here is some itchy
sumac, a thick oak,
a ladder, a birdhouse,
a tarp with a spider.

Here is a man atop
the ladder, calling
the birdhouse a cunt.
Here is his wife,

folding the tarp.
She finds the spider
and shrieks in circles.
The man calls, for

the love of christ
what now. She yells,
a spider, dead but big.
This man does not see

how a dead spider
presents a problem.
She says, that is
theoretically correct.

She gets the whisk
broom and whisks.
It's true, there is no
problem. The day

is fine. The cunt
will eventually
attach to the oak.
More spiders will

die or be dead.
The sumac will
spread according
to season, no problem.











From Poetry Magazine, Vol. 189, no. 4, January 2007. Used with permission.