(After Barbey's "Looking For My Doll")
Drip. There it is again.
Seeping up through the floorboards,
and trickling around knots in the walls,
Lost is here.
His spinnerets shoot sticky strands
and his eight legs twirl me round.
I am caught. Where are my wits?
I should squirm, strain the threads,
but Lost also affects passivity.
Sleep.
I am a little girl again,
staring with my neck falling backwards
at piles and stacks of haphazard steps.
Lost has taken my doll and hidden her.
He made me count to ten
and with squinty-closed eyes
I watched him ascend. Up, up,
so fast I could never catch him
even if I could regain my ambition.
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