Joseph Crowe Poetry

On that night of questions, my answer

stepped out of the dusk-draped desert:

dark dome lurching mechanical

like a wind-up toy toward our home.

A tortoise, and on its back, a rider

black and yellow, arching legs thin as wires,

bulbous body holding multitudinous eyes

watching me in multi-recognition.

As it reached my feet, I saw the venom

swelling the neck of its vehicle.

The tortoise stopped and bent its legs

and bowed to death.

And the spider stepped down

its ramp and onto sand

and looked up at me, pincers twitching,

waiting for the message to be clear:

it was here for us.

I offered my hand, and it scurried

into my open palm, and I carried it in

to you, and you let it inside

your mouth. You swallowed it whole.

And this is the poison

that passes between us

every time we kiss.

My doubt's squirming antidote.