seth

last thursday i killed a spider in my bathroom. i crushed its legs in a loosely collapsed toothpaste box. what an unfortunate home whose volume can change so abruptly. i moved to take out my piece of recycling when the spider came tumbling out the end onto the floor. my surprised feet scooted away and the spider, still alive, pulled its abdomen across the bathroom tiles with its five intact legs. its path was arced, curved towards the resistance of its crushed yellow limbs. i watched its struggle. when the world of any creature conspires tragedy against her, she aims all her desperation on instinct to leave the place of her undoing. but her undoing has already been done. i killed the spider with the outside face of the toothpaste box. i placed it over her moving body and pressed until i felt her explode. i called it compassion. that night a salt shaker and our compulsive destruction acted out a play of reactions and nonactions: the moving walls of my toothpaste box home. he called it compassion.