The neighbors have swept the webs
from the boxwood hedge and draped
it in cotton batting. Strange trouble
plagues us: a word flood on the wood
floor, we can’t breathe, etc. Today I
am disguised as a bride. November’s
tomorrow, but let’s not worry our
hands about it—the way storybook
spiders have only two eyes. Children
know any sweetness is good but some
sweetness is better than others. We
dispense it from the lent house until
they fade away like we might, were
we not believed in by credulous ghosts.
Sarah Kathryn Moore holds an MFA and a PhD from the University of Washington; her poems have appeared in Electric Lit, Poetry Northwest, and elsewhere. Find her online at sarahkathrynmoore.com.