Out of the corner of my eye, I see her.
She is a creature.
She has clung to my bedroom wall.
People sometimes have a
silent thought of her;
shudders of disgust,
stifled whimpers of fear
in spite of themselves.
Hunting through the dark,
darting forward maybe backward
the sudden bloom of lamplight
gives her pause.
Body like stemless wheat but somehow
She is now still as a criminal,
one that has broken and entered.
She gives me pause, too.
Long after she disappears,
Trying to shake off the feeling that she
May still be close,
I drift away.
Heavy wool tucked around my body
where are we? a lavatory, abandoned in the woods. we cover our heads in hoods fighting rain. we walk inside, unaware of the disrepair, barefoot in our bare feet 2 feet of black water, piss, blood and shredded paper. we climb the sloping concrete floor out of the filth in a desperate search for signals, suddenly trapped in a diseased room. we look to archetypes. we are lead to a colony on damp concrete of hundred-legged skeletons hung together in military formation lines, their antennae and extra limbs fuzzed vines and static impenetrable wires: skin-piercing scutigera bodies fencing us
Waking up alone to a melted room.
It is unfair.
A small creature so bold and powerful,
she asks me mind-numbing questions that I cannot answer
(cannot, will not, stupid with sleep)
she grows, she is no longer in pause,
but I am frozen with dead-stress fear of success
she crawls in exponential growth
15 pairs of sticky feet
pulling down the plaster of
my bedroom walls.
Denice Baker is a poet, photographer and gardener. She attended Western University, majoring in Comparative Literature with a minor in Creative Writing. She currently resides in London, ON.