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Click hereMy silent predator eyes
his prize, lingers
in my closet as legs like whispers
feather their way past
an army of defenses- heels spiked
in quiet warning- and he lurks
behind last year’s cashmere.
He outwaits me, outwits
me, and more holes are cored
into my legs,
the sting and scent
of peroxide a memorial
of shared regret.
I was in basic training in South Carolina when I was bitten by one. To this day, the smell of peroxide draws up the memory of that nasty bite.
This poem was mentioned in the Archival Review thread, in a picking through Lit's archive of over 35,000 poems.
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The only element from the South
I don't miss here in the damn frigid North;
I'd rather take my chances with that little critter.
evoked by the predator in the closet line. However, that also made the holes in the legs image more disturbing. I definitely winced at this poem and thought of spraying all my shoes down. Then I remembered, no brown recluses up here. =D
very pleasant reading. concise and in focus (though I think some of the word choices ... 'like whispers feather' for instance, are not particularly fitting and feel like "the easy way out." you can be fresher than that, i know for a fact). i particularly like the ending.
good to see you posting poetry again. :)