A Comic Interlude

A Comic Interlude


1.

David demands that I kill a spider
crawling across the living room ceiling.
I've killed dozens over the years, feeling
more like a murderer than a fighter.

So this time I try to convince my son
that spiders are hungry heroes who eat tons
of other bugs, monsterous things with wings
that infest and bite and infect and sting,

But David refuses to understand
the food chain. Or perhaps he wants to assert
the fact that he will never be dessert.
"But wait," I say, "Don't you love Spiderman?"

"Yes," he says.
"Well," I say, "If you love Spiderman so much
then how can you hate spiders?"
After a long time he says,
"That's a good question, Daddy. I'll have
to think about that."

2.

The next morning, David sees another
spider on the floor near his brother,
Joseph, and both boys panic and run.
"Holy shit!" I yell when I spot this one.

It's the largest spider I've ever seen,
and the eight-legged bastard is hunting me,
so I grab a dictionary and crush
the thing into wet pieces, then flush

It away. My boys look at me with awe
or confusion. They've spotted a flaw
in their father, and though I'd like to walk
into the next room, my son wants to talk.

"Dad," David says.
"Yes," I say.
"You love Spiderman as much as us, don't you?"
"Yes."
"If you love Spiderman so much, then how come
you killed the spider?"

After a long silence I say,
"Because Spiderman is a comic book character,
and that spider was real."

3.

Later that night, I wake from a nightmare
about tiny spiders who infest my hair
and burrow beneath teh skin into my brain.
It doesn't hurt, not exactly. The pain

Is more psychological. I can feel
the spiders feeding on my synapses.
They eat my lightning; the bastards steal
my ideas. Jesus, my life will collapse

If I can't tell my stories. How will I pay
the mortgage and keep us fed if I can't sing?
What happens to us if my talent fades?
Or wait, maybe my star has already dimmed.

"Dad," David says from his makeshift bed on
the floor.
"Yes," I say.
"Why are you still awake?"
"I had a nightmare."
"You have a lot of nightmares, don't you?"
"Yes," I say.
After a long silence, my son says,
"So do I."


Sherman Alexie

from his book FACE.