Strands by Michael A. Griffith

spider 1
Photograph by Diane Sahms
Why deny the obvious necessity for memory?
              l  Marguerite Duras, Hiroshima Mon Amour
Walked through her spider’s web
on my way to take in the sun.
The silkhair strands stick to my skin,
eerie tracings of where her fingers
once slid.
As the sun bakes my flesh.
I feel the strands melting into me,
phantom limbs of amputated desire.
I should move to the healing shade.
(That coolness beckons.)
But baking, simmering in her strands seems
somehow more enticing, more satisfying,
than that soothing shade
I see
inching away.
Griffith Photo
Michael A. Griffith teaches at Raritan Valley and Mercer County Community Colleges in central NJ. He is the author of three chapbooks of poetry, Bloodline, Exposed, and the forthcoming New Paths to Eden. Recent works appear in Ariel Chart, Miletus Literature Review, Ramingo’s Porch, and U.S. 1 Worksheets. Mike lives near Princeton, NJ.

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