More Than One Way to Skin a Life

There was a dark square, like a tag
On the hem of the outdoor drapes
The homeowners had thought to hang

Prettily from their pergola.
Later it was gone, which must mean
It was some kind of living thing,

And now you wish you’d walked over
To inspect it, since it was big,
Might have even been a spider.

Tarantulas do come around
This neighborhood, now and again.
The memory of that dark shape,

Which hadn’t been interesting
At the time, maybe a label
Sewn into the hem of the drapes,

Is now the ghost of a monster—
Not of the insect or spider
That had really been hanging there

On those white drapes in morning air,
Stirring in the canyon breezes—
But of its memory, now you.