#3 eczema

in the cracks of my skin, spiders heave deeply and pretend to lay waste. sensing on

scattered feet, me asleep, they filter through all that kills me. by finding footing on

roots and sweat, wetting themselves on my anxiety, whistling come now, come to

this mark, that’s been spot, for nervous fingers to scratch its reach

to the bone of my body.

they are raised as protectors of allah’s loves and missions, as for the Prophet in the cave.

and that’s why a tarantula and its cousins have been saved; however, with that many eyes,

who was there to see the bargain that they made. for spinning a net and playing fantasy,

i don’t think that they’ve done anything for free.

so when i awake, i hold my mind. with earplugs to hear the beats of my heart: ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-

boom, boom-boom, and that there are some deaths not held against scales, while others howl in my head.

but when i caught the many legs of an acquaintance, trying to pass, an uninvited brother, i took him to

the ground, while the angels looked the other way, and even though He saw, there was no guilt in my

tears as he shivered and curled under. i cannot carry the favors of another, and trust more longer.


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