Raspy Cricket by Taryn Schwilling

Every god of mine is predatorial
slippery as the silkworm’s weaving 
motion    my feelers fail me    inert 
incessant gorging  is it 

the weather makes us dumb  

we falter    our spinnerets malfunctioning

I’ve no words    I drum my symbols
talk nothing of production
terrific fever slipped between 
my breasts with question-

able intent    you linger    looking in  
I’m the pillow    talk
I feed at night & furl in 
this clammy cage    the white

what white I lack    the teeth 
to gnash or hackled fur
for every rhythm prim-
al    in asking to be 
bound    I inch along 
grown thinner

you make me ghost-
like    I lost my voice that night