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.
Comments on Friendsjournal.org may be used in the Forum of the print magazine and may be edited for length and clarity.