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Poetry
The terror is in the way it holds you.



Eight months pregnant,
I hang a clothesline in the back lawn.

In the nursery window, a garden spider
embraces its tightwoven prey. Anonymous

in gauze-white. Moth, horsefly,
creature that thought it had given

wide berth the arcing legs,
the center-poised X. They become husk.

My clothespins like the barn swallows,
solemn, well-spaced

on the wire between our home
and the distant, unseen next.



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