The Call

The Call

"The war is on," Nick hissed
in my ear tonight, in the darkest corner of Club Soda,
where a tarantula lives in a tank of fluorescent light.
We had all grown so used to the glow
we thought we looked alluring, but Nick
had crossed the line and become alarming,
gobbling onion rings and spilling more beer
down his shirt than down his throat.
"You want a beer?" he kept saying to me,
wiping the grease off his face.
"This is a culture of mass suicide."
He threw an onion ring at me
to see if I believed in him.
I caught and swallowed it in one bite.
"We have to build the web so
we have something to fall back on."
We laughed at the poison in our veins,
washing the grease down with more beer
until our eyes were glazed with a film of yeast,
yeast which ferments and rises
until it’s knocked back down
by hands who need bread to eat.
The first time grandmother spider spoke to me,
I was not wise enough to recognize the honor.
I was so afraid she would bite I trampled her.
I couldn’t see she was asking me to spin a new story,
and when I did, I was afraid the words
would never come. I didn’t know
I had all that was needed inside of me.
I thought my blood was ugly,
my organs polluted by years of self-hate.
I couldn’t hear the harmony
beneath the dissonance of toxic waste.
She could have given up on me,
swaddled me in silk so I’d never be able to speak,
but she snipped the threads that bound me,
forcing me into the open
where everyone could see my fear and pain.
When the lights went up at last call,
I stumbled.
Forced out the door,
I was shamed by starlight.
At first I was a victim and demanded my rights.
Give me back my freedom to die in my sleep! I cried.
Then I just cried.
Give me back the dark corners where I used to hide.
The war is on.
I refuse to fight.
There is silken thread inside me.
Catch hold as I leap.