by Sarah Wetzel

It's #tbt! Enjoy this great one from SWWIM Every Day's archives!

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I wanted to tell her that I knew the truth—
she didn't adopt her dog from a kill shelter,
which is what she was telling a group of us.
I held my tongue for fear of appearing petty.
We all want to be better than we are.
Yesterday, my brother called and asked for money.
At first, I told him no.
But he'd received the third notice from Georgia Power
so I paid his $700 electric bill though told him
never again, unless his wife got a job, any job.
I cc'ed her on the email.
She wrote back, you're an awful person
with a mixture of rage and bitterness I could hear
even on the screen. Still, this time
I meant it. I overheard the woman at the party
tell her friend they'd actually purchased the dog
from a breeder in upstate New York.
We spent so much money, we could have adopted
a baby from China. I found her statement funny.
I want to be better. I want to save a dog, to save
my brother. I want to tread lightly on this world without
leaving footprints or too many
plastic wrappers. I want to see Singapore
and Vietnam, to spend a summer in Italy writing
short stories and a sonnet or two.
Learn to tango and foxtrot equally well.
I want to be good. I want to write one poem so perfect
that when I'm dead, a stranger will pin it to the wall,
perhaps even claim it as their own.

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Sarah Wetzel is the author of three poetry collections, most recently The Davids Inside David, from Terrapin Books. Sarah is Publisher and Editor at Saturnalia Books, and when not shuttling between her two geographic loves—Rome, Italy and New York City—she is a PhD student in Comparative Literature in the CUNY Graduate Center in New York City. You can connect at facebook.com/sarah.wetzel.3 or on Instagram @sarahwetz.

by Sarah Wetzel

A web full of baby spiders, each the size of a tear
drop, vibrating in place until blown on and then

falling down toward the end of threads
spun from their own tiny bodies, each crossing

over that of its siblings’. Yellow sac, brown
recluse, golden, it’s almost impossible

to identify what they will become—
poison or not. Hunters or gatherers.

A female wolf spider carries her eggs
in a silk sac on her back until the spiderlings

hatch, disperse, ballooning, kiting, releasing
their own gossamer lines to catch

the wind, traveling, sometimes, kilometers. Halfway
between New York and Napoli, ships report

spider landings. Mortality, not surprisingly, is high.
I am waiting to hear from my friend’s husband

if his wife made it alive through the night.
Meanwhile, the sun strokes the threads of the web

as if love and this, the start
of a long journey. I blow

softly on the web, watch the tiny things
tumble, watch them fly.

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Sarah Wetzel is the author of the poetry collection, The Davids Inside David, recently released from Terrapin Books. She is also the author of River Electric with Light, published by Red Hen Press, and Bathsheba Transatlantic, published by Anhinga Press. When not shuttling between her two geographic loves—Rome, Italy and New York City—she is Publisher/Editor at Saturnalia Books and a PhD student in Comparative Literature at CUNY Graduate Center in New York City. See sarahwetzel.com.

by Sarah Wetzel

I wanted to tell her that I knew the truth—

she didn't adopt her dog from a kill shelter,

which is what she was telling a group of us.

I held my tongue for fear of appearing petty.

We all want to be better than we are.

Yesterday, my brother called and asked for money.

At first, I told him no.

But he'd received the third notice from Georgia Power

so I paid his $700 electric bill though told him

never again, unless his wife got a job, any job.

I cc'ed her on the email.

She wrote back, you're an awful person

with a mixture of rage and bitterness I could hear

even on the screen. Still, this time

I meant it. I overheard the woman at the party

tell her friend they'd actually purchased the dog

from a breeder in upstate New York.

We spent so much money, we could have adopted

a baby from China. I found her statement funny.

I want to be better. I want to save a dog, to save

my brother. I want to tread lightly on this world without

leaving footprints or too many

plastic wrappers. I want to see Singapore

and Vietnam, to spend a summer in Italy writing

short stories and a sonnet or two.

Learn to tango and foxtrot equally well.

I want to be good.

I want to write one poem so perfect

that when I'm dead, a stranger will pin it to the wall,

perhaps even claim it as their own.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Sarah Wetzel is the author of River Electric with Light, which won the AROHO Poetry Publication Prize and was published by Red Hen Press in 2015, and Bathsheba Transatlantic, which won the Philip Levine Prize and was published in 2010. A PhD student in Comparative Literature at the CUNY Graduate Center in New York, Sarah also teaches creative writing at The American University of Rome. You can read some of her work at www.sarahwetzel.com.