Apologies
To the black widow spider whom I have just killed;
allow me to offer my apologies.
I had not seen one of you before,
and in fact, was beginning
to question your existence. You seem
too rare to be true,
like gay republicans,
or comfortable dress pants,
but I haven't lived in the South very long,
and there is a lot I don't know.
I was not expecting this stand-off
in my driveway.
At 5 p.m. on Friday,
armed with gardening gloves,
I studied your backside as you
cowered beside a leaf, folding
over yourself like a fan.
I was afraid, looking for the nearest thing
to throw, and wondering
why I had neglected to wear socks,
if the soles of these shoes
were thick enough
to kill another being
which could kill me
regardless of size
I had not felt so small
in the presence of a one-inch spider
five feet from
my own.
I settled on a welcome mat,
its pink rubber flower bearing the weight of both feet
as it flung across your tiny body and I jumped.
I did not hear a scream, or splat, but
gingerly lifted the corner to see this streak of you,
some dangerous snot,
and your legs
collapsed on the concrete,
a deflated balloon.
I feel regret and relief, knowing
you won't kill me, but
perhaps you wouldn't have anyway.
This leads me to consider if I understand
global politics in the slightest, this
act of being powerful until one is not,
how size is just size,
and I am more likely to be killed by a man
than a spider,
this fellow-female,
whom I have annihiited.