Interview with the Wraith’s Sister
Clay Cantrell

I bet them spiders feel you.
Sister curled in cistern. Deep.
I guess a gun barrel rides you
camouflaged and you quit thinking.
I bet them spiders know,
widows, hourglassed, freshcut
hay spiders, a shell of legs
shot down a cylinder. On your walk
over pinecones, does the earth
maw at you? Do you catch
a shiny concrete scratch
as them boys kneel you?
A sun finally blots. You close
yourself to its ponytail eye.
I bet them is the best leggings.
I guess they shop your skin.
Shoot brown in you and eye
the gray of a gloomy cloud.
I bet spiders know the details
of snag and sex you also know.
A shiny scrape on you derives
truth only you feel. Deep.
I won’t tell where you bloat.