An open apology to spiders and other insects I've squashed
like marbles.

We all have spent the morning in the
uncomfortable reptilian torso of 
a Tyrannosaurus Rex-- felt his own futile 
hands of pebble and stood tall just to have
the neighbor girl look at us like the
evergreen tree that was always there
in the back yard-- the fossilized femur--
bares pine cones of bone
The neighbor girl laughs and says that you're an absurd dog.
We all have squashed insects or 
people like insects or people
like crustaceans-- clumsily--
dazed and buzzing like the hive's hung 
on our head like thorn-crowns or Romani
metal waist bands pulled loose from
the corn-cob hair of the sun. 
I deeply regret all the spiders I've killed--
all the ants under flip flops--
thousand-leggers turned to smudges--
their blood like my blood--
blue
black
mosquito-maroon red--
lipstick scabs
reptilian and crustaceans-- inky
on wallpaper-- my brother was born
a centipede and so was I. Only
one of us grew into a dinosaur
to step on everything
that scares me--
and I'm sorry that my only reaction
to fear is to stomp on things--
maybe if I were to sit down to have
tea with the spider cadavers 
in my bathroom sink 
maybe they wouldn't all turn
into balls of folded legs--
crumpled beings-- sacrificed
sparks under the over arching 
power of fear.
Drink tea with my moths
and leave my flour jars and
sugar bowls 
until the morning-- I'm
scared of that dust you carry down from
the stars.
I've only ever stepped on marbles--
broken marbles-- the little 
earths of the spider eyes--
nothing broken
but the pine cones of bone.
I'm sorry spiders-- I'm sorry marbles--
I'm sorry to my brother
the centipede.
and to the myself
for becoming so reptilian.