Tenant

Crablike
it uncloaks
from itself—
removes
its own ghost-
ly paper. A leg
of mostly air
remains in air.
The hollowed
onionskin bulbs
where eyes once lay
look out on the field.
The din of it.
A new body
is painful. Exposed,
it must retreat
what was once inside
further inside.
Globe perched
on translucent needles,
the articulated twin
chooses tomb or home.
It violates a form.
Bud like a fist.
Like a thought
about to give
out. There is a pink
so clear and pale
a rose can’t
call it kin.
A dwelling clutches
close to itself—
Its what?
Its brief solitude
before welcoming
the traveler
to crawl
its repeating galleries
to wait in holy center. 
It drags 
the outside there.

Copyright © 2022 by Emily Skillings. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on July 4, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.

Subscribe to the Poem-a-Day Podcast 

  

“I wrote this poem after seeing a striking photograph of a nearly translucent crab spider (family Thomisidae) perched on a flower. After some light Internet browsing, I found that instead of weaving webs, these spiders use the flower to catch prey, waiting for unsuspecting butterflies and other insects to land in search of nectar. These spiders can even camouflage themselves to match the color of the petals of their host bud. In this poem, the spider molts, creating another self. The spider is both body and vacant shell; the flower is both grave and house. I was interested in these doublings. In many ways, I think this poem addresses a kind of hospitality in nature, even, and especially, when it is a site of death. The poet Rachel Levitsky once told me that spiders are poets, and I think this is true. I haven’t (intentionally) killed a spider since I was a girl. I love to encounter them in my home and in the world.”
—Emily Skillings