Logan Square East, Philadelphia PA
A noiseless, patient spider,
I mark’d, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated...
— Walt Whitman, “A Noiseless Patient Spider”
Mother sleeps, wilting in her Gerry chair,
the corners of her mouth cradling oatmeal
I’d fed her earlier. A lifetime ago
she told me she’d been a tomboy.
This stranger, once that girl, once
my father's bride, wakes, whimpers,
grimaces. Her hands grip the wheelchair,
eyes squint shut, head bows. She prays
to a god I still don't know. I search
her lined face for signs of pain, touch
places on her body believing she’ll wince
if I hit upon a hurt. She’s still. I’m sad
not to know what she feels, thinks, would
say, if only the phantom spinner hadn’t
seized her, squeezing out the last trace
of speech weeks ago. Now,
only a vacant stare & a patient
noiseless spider eyeing its next victim.