When the Spider Wails
by Esteban Arellano

Because I am angry, I squash it.
Don’t tell me a spider can’t scream.
Its spirit, like a leaf, rolls down the trail
and disappears into the brush.
I swear. I swear. I swear it.
Don’t tell me a spider can’t wail.

In the parlor, in the bell
of this last holy Sunday,
a wish for one more sermon.
“Why weep,” they ask.
I smile and say,
“My metaphysical self
is dancing.
These tears --
these tears --
these tears are for the earth.”

Among the desert flowers
my mother moves
as if she walks on water.
There is no coffin here --
perhaps a husband’s immensity,
perhaps a rattle in the whistle
of the evening’s
immutable light.
There is no coffin here.
I swear. I swear. I swear it.
There is no coffin here.

And in the slant of light, shadows
merge with night --
hear the great bird on it’s flight
to Jerusalem.
And in the brush, the scream
of the spider that I squashed.
Its spirit, like a leaf, rolled down the trail
and disappeared into the brush.
I swear. I swear. I swear it.
Don’t tell me a spider can’t wail.

Happy Union:
A Path To Enlightenment