MICHAEL RYAN
When I opened my eyes this morning,
the fact of its shooting out
long thin green runners on which miniatures
of the mother will sprout,
and that each of these offshoots
could in its own time repeat this,
terrified me. And something seemed awful
in the syllables of the word “Brenda,”
sounding inside me before they made a name,
then making a name of no one I’ve known.
I had been dreaming I was married to Patty
again. She kept coming on my tongue
and I knew if I put myself in
we’d have to stay together this time.
But I wanted to, and did, and as I did
the sadness and pleasure of our nine years together
washed through me as a river, yet
I knew this wasn’t right, it couldn’t
work, and though we were now enmeshed
forever, I began to rise from my body
making love with her on the bed and to hover
at a little distance over both of us.
That’s when I awoke and saw the spider plant.