HOUSE OF SPIDERS AND
THEIR COBWEB PRAYERS
‘See, the house, mother said, once
was lived by spiders. Do not cross the street.’
Like lightning, my eyes opened.
I was dreaming.
It’s 6:37 in the morning
I think it is going to rain here.
The window’s open as if an open book--
your mama’s arms inviting
you— come, read me.
Something formless enters my room.
A dead or wind. Or perhaps, they are alike.
The flapping of curtains begins
the way pages are stirred by a sudden
brush of air. Somewhere,
they are always lost.
Across the road is a house
the color of wheat field, your
grandma’s face, unquenched mouth.
Every day, its paint pales
away— the dying of light.
Sometimes at night I hear sounds like
of a sewing machine. Or spiders
talking incessantly. Threads & threads
like men chanting for abundance of
rain and sun— more, more, more.
A language the opposite
of another language.
I sit on my bed and watch
the overcast heavens mourn again
as if a lover in a graveyard.
Today, let rain and wind dance,
woman, a deep-ocean colored dress
waves the way surges do during
Kari Astillero is just a little girl working to live the dream and is a second year student majoring in Journalism. She lives in a city from Philippines with her family but wish to live alone and be independent – for now no. She loves to write and talk about nature, music and the universe. She hopes to have her own published poetry book someday and a cozy home surrounded by trees and flowers. Her Tumblr is theamaranthinesoul.tumblr.com and her Twitter is @smilekaayyri.