the week the spider left

things have gotten kind of sinister. it was bound to happen when the leaves fell.
lungs tight with mucus, airways compressed, painful sleep, a room of salt rain.
raining salt water for I don’t know how long. it coats my mouth. I spit cream.
knew it’d be hard change the week the spider left its web. my voice tearing, knocked down
by a dog in the rain. the couple staring at me lying in soaken leaves, soaking me with flashlight.
saying “get a light,” like it was wrong to have night vision. I yelled, “behind you,” but they didn’t hear.
tears I didn’t know were waiting came rushing thru the streets with the rain, to be captured
by the Electric Factory like the river. wet and black and knocked down.
unraveled face and swollen lips and no help up, nothing but accusations looming.
the slippery feeling of being dark wet cold out from wet leaf trench

whip lashed from looking up at lunging dog, those camouflaged clothes and defensive tones,
the woman hiding behind the man, beaten. what world is this? salt rain throat-
windy & car bitten-coughing up cream all heavy night-
get on the telepathy line with my family of angels, eyes burning, they told me, “lava’s gotta flow so you
don’t explode.” sometimes I can see the word that should be. this poet said she saw a sign,
“this eternal earthly soul rides,” in answer to her question, why do we have consciousness?
why are we ever? because it’s sad not to be. the road
wraps you up alright, wet and full of strangers seeing you wail coming in broken feeling.
knew the angels would be waiting at the head of the stairs in purple dusk tho, & at that frozen moment,
a text came, vibrating wet pocket.
my private angels come speaking to me when the music gets slow

my friend calls crying in the morning
transgendered indian teen cousin jumped off the tallest bridge in town. haven’t found
her body in the river. cops watched her jump. come up for air then not come up.
it’s not on the news that she’s lost to the river. a fly nearly invisible
floating thru the room like dust. white kid jumps from tallest bridge and they search for days & reporters
are everywhere but brown kid jumps and they say, current’s too strong. they don’t search at all. no body
found. spirit loose alone. no story in the news. breaks the skin, floods us through. rain won’t stop
& it’s hard to breathe.

no one cares about transgendered mouthy native kids? the river is not selective.
what could it mean? don’t hate yourself for fallen states, lost spider and pushed off your bike states—
hating leads to jumps in the ice river & panicking at the thought of being touched & bullied brown
kids so poisoned by lifetimes of mirrored hate it drags them down. don’t think bad of anyone, it could end
in mirror hate, throwing ourselves off bridges.

say a prayer for that kid now, she ain’t got nothin’ at all. there was nothing wrong with you, there was nothing wrong with you, oh I wish you woulda hitched out of here, to New Orleans where they’d love you like you were. oh river, love that kid now. take that kid home. have a bed in rain cold river for that kid to sleep in

vivid colored outside after bed for 2 days, disbelief that there are people, that I am me
soft river bank, a single lost goose
indian kids jump in the river and drown and the cops stand by and watch.
purse dropped. butterfly back flip over the tallest bridge in town.
say she became a butterfly right then. say she became a ghost laugh right then
her family searching the bay in boats, expecting to find her washed up to shore. say she is a river god now, say she is the pink sea serpent gold rising from the waves
my private angels come speaking to me when the music gets slow

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