spindle

a spider makes a nest every night where the door opens to the back porch, to a slab of concrete.
a robin tried to make a nest for two months on a friend’s porch. blue eggs fell through the cracks.
splattered like yokes in the pan, dead eggs like my tongue when i’m afraid
anxious alone i scroll through tinder again looking for another poet but i only find finance and men.

my father told me my aunt went back to being straight and i tried that too but it didn’t work.
it wasn’t true. the hole i filled with swedish fish on tuesday nights when no one else is home was true.
i see that spider every night but in the morning she’s gone, had her fill of flies, she’s doing her own thing i
guess.
or perhaps she, too, sleeps long, misses her ex, dreams of moving back to new york.

i’m writing an essay about negatives in photography i don’t know
how they’re made but i try to consider negatives as choices or people or bugs that come in and out of 
my day. how did the rock get her stripes? how does the beer taste this way? how does my skin dimple?
i saw a snail on my walk this morning and thought about moving as slowly as them, basically stopping.

that night the phone buzzed, i looked up apartments on zillow  in brooklyn before the spider came back.