bananas in the kitchen 

the back of the cast iron pan,
smashes each tarantula into an 
asterisk. are there more?
i check the cabinets & 

& the other sides of my hands.
dad, searching our skin all 
over for ticks. the tall grass
like the bristles of a mother

broom. dad told the story
that when he worked in the supermarket
that sometimes tarantulas would
come through in the banana boxes.

passengers, their their fangs
poised like knitting needles. 
what quilt? i try to let them outside.
have winter undo them instead of me. 

that's cowardly, i know. i freeze.
the creatures legs across skin--
scratchy like the stubble on my uncle's
face. spiders don't like the sensation

of breathing. i hold my breath.
i check behind my ears for ticks 
& i know tarantulas don't drink blood
but i have to ask the creatures again

to be sure. i turn over the bananas
in the dim light of the kitchen.
the sink dripping. i survey the fruit
over eight times & on the eighth 

inspection, find a spider. she 
grips tightly to the peel. she's lost
trust in the color yellow. 
she tells stories of Colombia:

the height of a tree. the heat 
of the afternoon. crawling between
banana bunches. i've learned to peel
myself when necessary. dad would

take a knife to the neck. 
strip by strip. the pale flesh underneath.
ripe-- the legs of the tarantula--
the weakness of sugar. i chew

slowly. the tarantulas amble
across the walls. one step at a time:
piano fingers. dad isn't home &
i close my eyes. swallow.

should you trust them?
hold still.