Mother didn’t read
“The Itsy-Tipsy Spider”
In a long while,
But I wonder, I wonder.
—
“The itsy-tipsy spider,
Climbed up the water spout,
Down came the rain,
And washed the spider out.
Out came the sun,
And dried up all the rain,
And the itsy-tipsy spider,
Climbed up inside the house.”
Mother, that doesn’t rhyme, I say,
I know it doesn’t, answers Mother.
“The itsy-tipsy spider,
Climbed out the faucet head,
Down came the spider
As it sprawled across the drain.
Once the spider stood,
It moved about an inch,
And recovered and grew,
Hundredfold its normal size.
The spider ate the mother,
The father, son, and more,
A perfect family
Sat inside the spider’s gut.”
Mother doesn’t see my face,
Mother doesn’t see my fear.
“The spider devours the family,
Forms their guts into babies,
The babies comes out from the spider,
And they morph into the family.
The family that a particular child once,
Dreamed to be true,
Appeared to only be a dream,
An eight-legged, silky dream.”
Mother looks at me contentiously
I smile weakly at Mother.
Mother walks across the floor
With an unnerving smoothness
As if underneath Mother’s bathrobe
Lay six hidden legs.
