I stand on the bathroom scale and
a spider crawls out from under it
and there’s no pain scale for these hurts so
I make a tally in the shower, each fifth strand
of hair criss-crossing little prison windows so
I don’t lose count
and the spider disappears itself back under
the bathroom scale and my witchbelly is
tightened like a snare, my little blue toes
can be seen for miles and whatever
is possessing me—I am trying to starve it
my insides nebulous as teddy bear filling
and the sun through the warped window
goes right through my warped skin
my body is a dumpster behind
a flower shop, my body is edgeless
as an island
Rebecca Kokitus is a poet residing in the Philadelphia area.… Read more ““the spider” by Rebecca Kokitus”