Photo by Leoniek

In the stooped squat of age, I grab a plastic cup and lid
    stealthily bend toward the corner
    where he cowers.

Sometimes she with eight legs and a thousand babes
    often a skeeter-killer or trembling moth
    swept up in darkness thrown softly to waiting leaves.

If they sting or bite I kill them dead
    on the spot with bodily force
    before they hurt my beloveds.

But isn’t it so that I sit safely on this hill
    where I assume righteousness
    yet only the brave step forward to brandish belief.

Marjorie Gowdy

Marjorie Gowdy has been published in Roanoke Review, Artemis Journal, Clinch River Review, and other places. In 2022, two poems will be displayed with quilts in the Colonial Piecemakers Quilt Guild/Poetry Society of Virginia (PSV) exhibition. She has essays in Katrina: Mississippi Women Remember (2007). She is a Virginia Tech graduate with a master's from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro.

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