Ballooning

Annabelle Chen

The web came apart

as if I’d swept my fist through it.

I imagined the spider’s

dismay. The yield of the thread

like an earthquake or the wet

flinch of deck: you

were supposed to be infallible.

Trust grounded in

what you built with eight legs

and a pincer or two hands and a hunger

sinks faster. The weight

of this faith—listen to the

flooring creak and the coy

arch of wood and watch the mold

bloom like a bruise.

ballooning! they can even do it across the ocean