WHEN I SAID I LOVE YOU TO DEATH
- 3 days ago
- 1 min read
By Mary Mulholland
Somehow the rose-haired tarantula
comes to mind, how she lives alone,
hides her fangs – but don't we all?
Docile, despite all her legs, until
he swaggers up, taps away, his irresistible
belly-dance. She falls every time.
Taps hers in response.
They dance, mate, thirty seconds, it's over
for him – unless he gets out superfast.
Her eyes in the clouds, she digs in, not seeing.
And isn't that how it goes? Each time
I sabotage it, when what I really want to say
is Sorry. I didn't mean to.
Sometimes I can't help myself.