MOLTING

(OR: THE TARANTULA)

Written By: Johnny Cate

It must be how prophets feel

when they gotta prophesy—

divine pressure, right? Caps lock

but no letters, an unsaid

DO THIS OR DIE.

All at once it became too much

I was being crushed, my heart

felt huge inside me & the armor

I'd built myself bore down,

a horrific claustrophobia,

an undeniable sense that who I was

wasn't enough anymore.

I'll lie down on my back, I thought,

though I never do that

I'll just lie down & let it pass, it'll pass

but when I did, a dark gossamer

swept the world & I slept

like I was dead. & then—sounds

like glacial separation in a

massive sheet of black ice,

searing pain & in each of my

8 eyes a sudden fissure of white

vaginal fire—can you imagine?

8 fissures of white vaginal fire

& agony, pain so bad I screamed

for Christ. Those excruciating lights,

they came at me like scythes & no

sooner had they started cutting

me apart than I found the pain

was pleasure & had been

all along—airlocks at every joint

hissed, tickled, gave way & I heard

my own voice say NOW

& kicking free I ditched the molt

& emerged a wholly new creation.

I am so soft. So soft I could be eaten,

I could be eaten by a baby

I'm so soft—my skin practically

translucent, the dusting

of rose hair over my abdomen

like the blushing June Strawberry Moon

& even my fangs are pink,

too tender to kill a thing & this gland

of silk inside me—what is it

it is the Word of God & it glistens

between my spinnerets

& my thoughts now are radiant now

& race & run like a million rivulets

to one coursing hope, one feeling

I know yes I know this one,

it is hunger—I'm hungry.