Wednesday Morning

by Elizabeth Parnell

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I’m not slipping, I’m not solid, I’m in that state

where my eyes can’t focus,

and everything is blurry.

My hand can't lift itself

to reach for my glasses on the bedside table.

Everything is a sightsoundtouch blur.

The covers sound like soft acoustics in late afternoon,

Light through the curtain is dandelion fuzz on my eyelids,

The sounds of the house creaking glow like a fireplace–

Interrupted by my blaring alarm

and I’m up but not up and what’s that

Thing

On the sheet, what is that why is it moving–

Ohmygod. tell me it isn’t.

You’ve got to be kidding it’s 6 am-

And, as my vision settles, I focus on

Spiked legs scampering.

The eight legs lurch toward me,

And I hurl my body out of bed

screaming.