Raged off to take my shower. Found
I’d forgotten the spider that lives
above the tub. In our house, you’re the one

who catches spiders and mice, carries them
to that place beyond the wall. You’re
the one who gets all jobs involving death

and insects. How then, when you’ve scooped
it into a cup and dumped it outside,
can there be a spider in the exact

same place each day? After I pushed
my way past you, determined to claim
first shower, after my nightgown lay bunched

on the bathroom floor, I knew suddenly
what was behind the plastic curtain. I pull
on my nightclothes, not wanting to show

my nakedness, then cry for help.
You put the fight on hold and cup
that spider in two closed hands.

This afternoon, a sort of compromise.
We wash the breakfast dishes together,
watch, through the window above the sink,

a hooded crow balance on the back
of a cow. It plucks red tufts of hair
from the shoulder blades’ valley.