You know the old saying
about never being more
than a few feet away
from a spider,
no matter where
you are —
sources say
it’s not true, bit
of an urban legend,
but people love it
and repeat it
to illustrate some deep fear
of how close danger
or simple unpleasantness always may be,
of how close nature is,
how we’re not-as-dominant
as we’d like to presume we are
even in the splendor
of our well-built homes
and the perfect turf
of their invasive lawns
and planned non-native gardens,
our imported birds,
our disruptive states of easy being;
strange how no one speaks this way
of the demonstrable swarm
of tiny spiders known as cultural appropriation,
the savage venom brewed
of captured spirit
and web-caught dreams;
how we are never more
than three feet away
from something stolen
that is often underfoot, that other times
is floating by in music and air;
we don’t shudder thinking about what’s inside us,
what has made a home within;
most only dimly aware
of how the tiny spiders hold sway,
crawling upon us daily,
minutely, second to second;
why we don’t run screaming into deep water
to cleanse ourselves
of all this is a mystery;
it is as if a screen has fallen
before our eyes, websilk
woven thick and strong
that shields us
from seeing the tiny spiders
of cultural theft we are never more
than skin-thick away from,
tiny spiders like ghosts
of a past we took, visions
of futures that never will be.
Dark Matter 