1

It never was my intention to float lazily through the living room, reflecting the light, unsure where I would land. I was shed from your skin, that kind of Eve, not even granted the rib of bone. I spent years unable to vote, years toiling in kitchens to feed what fueled your power. Now I angle toward the corner of the room where the spider webs me a mountain.

2

The creation of the world comes from weaving hands, the spider-like three Fates, and even though I share your skin I am not you. It’s all just sex and shedding, birth and loss, mountains and the flat plains like my palms over our babies’ bellies. I’ve cast ballots and nets and gathered seeds. I’ve climbed my peak to watch you enter a mine. Breathe in coal dust.

3

It never was my intention to sweep myself into a dustpan and release me into the elements. But I did. Winter threatens and a regime is on the verge of collapse. There are wars. You have angled north and all the spiders move inside. They know how to stay above ground, how to corner their universe. I’ve found in my legs an anchor from which I can rise and look down. The city lights you up in the dark.

*Publisher’s Note:

From “I was a dust mote” (R-1965) by Sufi mystic and poet Rumi (Jalāl al-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī, 1207-1273) in Gold: Poems, as translated from the Farsi by Haleh Liza Gafori (New York Review Books, 2022).

Bio: Kika Dorsey