Had it been a year, or two

since they began to talk - to spin that weave,
that spiderweb of bullshit to
a net for catching monsters

It’s snakes of longing

spiderwebs that catch her in the face 
sudden clinging thin string strands: 
that slippery tender slide 

jolts her into the night-sweat-swearing 
passion, fear and lust and terror make her reach

for the normal range of

gasping horrors
for spiders, snakes and public speaking
falling from cliffs.
Beware the deadly fear of speaking truth
or hearing what is said.

Don’t check the date
it’s an anniversary anyhow - it feels as though
he has been sliding in and weighing on the edges of her fisheye thoughts these days

a blurring into visions of those things 
vision gone long
she doesn’t want to see how long 

for sure it would imply defeat

to hairshirt herself in that regret, 
regret a scratching label at the back of a cotton dress,
regret discomfort breathing down the back of her neck
that trick he had her play
pulling snakes of misery in and out and back into her mouth.

It’s a temptation, she won’t deny it

to hold those snakes, loose mouthed and let them slide across the roof, peel and reel them off her tongue with word snakes like sticky living string, with her breath to stir that pot 

That should stay 
still, I suspect

under the meniscus crust of dust
don’t find out how liquid all that muck is underneath
or how much sweetness cloys in it.
Let it evaporate 
to cracked clay lining an old bowl

let it all be washed into the garden with 
the quiet beasts