by Rickey Laurentiis

 A sentence sentences a single thought
to the world, to a life 
  appointment, could say, manifestly made 
& out of vying 
  choices; it voices other externalities, other
sentences, since a given thought, like
  this lonely sentence, will stretch
to meet its subject, to make most of
   the enduring image such as
a spider makes most of its silk—
   to entrap her prey, whether peer or person,
for even the spider’s web
   ensnare us, if even for its Beauty alone: ah!
there is still Beauty in this  
    gnarled world full of ambition,
full of the spiders’ weaving to catch
  its meal but the web, instead, gets stuck
in my hair, somewhere along the way
  the way gets deep, dense, 
in the bando, scrawled between frames
  of a cracked door that, for a second,
like a cat, I do hesitate at, waiting 
  at that altar that is any threshold, just
to cross it; but cross it and get at
  sly nature offending me, the invisible
spun around my spun mind: I think I belong
  to you, reader, you are my cross-
road, you are the ghost in the bando,
  screaming out its unfinished
plot got dropped like love drops the heart
into a wild terror, where the very wounds
  beam with light; ghosts prove us, 
too, that not just afterlife but that life is,
  and, deliberately, it should be confronted; 
and ghosts love us,
the living, hardly capable of loving them 
   back, their neuroses replace
the ticking heart, their obsession return
  a usable brain, caught
in that delicate suspension, midway into a room,
   which starts at the beginning of all loss,
like the open field is to
   the woods’ first line of trees, like the shore
abhors where the river
  sneaks up on it and takes it back
to the sea: like this, I run up on the seduction
  of entering,
of breaking into the far bowels of the city,
  where derelict rooms enchant
with their prized inside—but do not let me lie,
   do not let me write this just to ignore 
a basic truth that 
   lust pulled me here,
and, even now, to trust this man, not yet
  the ghost, I’ve come in with, who I follow,
who will find a spare room, any corner, 
   stranger within a strange land, and sit me down, 
& back, and quietly 
    lay down his web in me. Most days 
in my future I won’t
   remember this, too embarrassed by what
sex pulls me to do, to have done to me, 
   but when I do I will have
confused the man for the ghost, for you again—
   your fearful presence is the ghost, its voyeurism is ours,
Him still screaming, as if I were a book
   (me breathing hard) its blank pages, as if he were 
his story (the volume of a moan) urgent 
  and ready to be written in me.
  

 

Poem copyright 2026 by Rickey Laurentiis. All rights reserved.

See more poems from Rickey Laurentiis on The Fight & The Fiddle: “Coming Out of the Animal”

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Read more in this issue: Interview | Critical Essay | Writing Prompt