Today's poem is by Susan Tekulve

Tarantata
       

The dark hours—
scrambled eggs, tap water
beyond the kitchen window
crepe myrtle twists liked skinned muscle
into scrub oak and holly. Fallen summer leaves
no longer shield me
from black and broken windows
in the home for unwed mothers
behind my house.
One of the girls has left
a bureau sinking into mud, teenage lingerie
foaming from its top drawer.
I'm reminded of Italian daughters
bitten by the spider
of unnamed desires,
tarantatas fleeing
through orchards, falling
into spinning dance for three days,
collapsing in church ruins,
heads rolling, white peasant skirts tangled
between bare legs, waiting
for the men to offer
violins, tambourines, voices:
Figliola, mother, virgin, fountain
climb the mountain, enter
the garden, go across waters, make
this young girl happy, heal her
The moon is white and you are dark.

I'm reading a letter from a former student
on God's mission in a rainforest.
She writes of wind and rain, the call
of monkeys, bright birds at night.
The rains are so soft
but they come every day. Mold
grows on my walls and ceiling, clinging
between creases in my skirts.
I am not lonely.
A schoolgirl brought me her tarantula.
She was very natural with holding
and letting it crawl all over her.
Some tarantulas are poisonous.
This one hardly bites
and his venom is weak.
I conjure her dark eyes,
stories of her mother
who gave up painting for children,
drank coffee inside a child's empty teepee.
When do girls stop believing in spun myths
of women happy to be still?
I walk into the backyard's late-winter ruin.
Sharp holly leaves prick
my bare feet. Moonlight softens
the home for unwed mothers.
Mold clambers down its slate roof
like black and harmless spiders.

Copyright © 2025 Susan Tekulve All rights reserved
from Bodies of Light
Serving House Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission