Spider Is a Queen

She climbed into my mouth and  

made a pocket, paper thin, 

shallow as the envelope at the  

back of your books

I held her like an idol 

tucked there in my cheek, 

and inside me was still the red of  

maraschino, of hot cherry pies

She makes me say things then, 

standing at the mailbox— 

We are dust...we are just dust and wind! 

I whisper to the sky, to the 

man now folded over, foam 

filtered through the lines of his teeth

I have dreams of Dobermans, 

of walking out high-rise windows  

into thin, shifting winds, 

the dawn still sea glass— 

formless, not yet alive

And inside me a soft crescendo, 

a choir singing Nirvana

I write it all out on slate, 

whatever she says— 

all those little perils added up in chalk, 

brought south with a shaking cosine

Twist, twist go my thoughts, 

go my words, go my mouth when I  

try to keep her stitched there inside

We are with my mother so I can’t  

let her speak, so I swallow her deep  

and she runs then—up the trunk  

of my throat, and runs and runs— 

furred legs slipping on my swallowed  

tears, on everything wet inside me

and either she or me says Remember this me forever 

before we’re both brought fallen back to the dirt, 

to the trapdoor of this grave, on this hole on this hill, 

a small family of a thousand black nights

The storm fumbles its way from the  

absurd simplicity of the horizon 

and by the time the rain falls, 

my vibrating mind and hers are one— 

the twitch of our heart, 

the smooth sliding of limestone

To be dead is not so bad, as they say

---

Amanda Mitzel lives in a cabin in the woods, where she writes horror and free verse poetry. She has been published in Strange Horizons, Moonday Mag, Weird Lit Magazine, and  more, and her chapbook We Are All Made of Glory & Soft, White Light was published by Bottlecap Press. She can be found at amandamitzel.com and on IG @amanda.mitzel.