Police report no. 1999-05014
Date of incident: May 1, 1999
Call time: 10:57pm
The fifth time he puts his hands on her neck
I tell her he means it
and it’s time to go, but I am sixteen
and while she’s taught me to drive, she has not
taught me how get the storm windows out, and while
I know how to crawl
between the shrubs to the garage, I do not
know how to start the car
silently, or how to get the keys
from her pocket when
her back’s broken against the bookshelf
and he hasn’t finished yelling, and anyway
it’s never been
the end before, she always reminds me
and he always makes amends
(to her, not me)
so, really, how likely is it this time?
Reporting: Officer Ariadne Wilcox, Badge no. 4414 and Officer Theodore Hall, Badge no. 6486
Bureau: Homicide
I’ve pushed my bed
against the window, the one
with all the cobwebs, and he can’t get in
to this room, not with the mess
I’ve made on purpose
and so far I haven’t crossed
his mind, which I figure
is about halfway through
his litany of rage right now. I can tell
because the words never change, just move
farther back in his throat
congeal
into a roar
Incident location: State Game Lands 157, PA 18930
The weaver at the window hears it all,
braids it into her portrait. She has been here
three weeks, and already she’s built
a more useful home than ours, one that does it all—
protects her, warns her of danger, catches her meals
asserts her presence and domain—I wonder
if, in the mornings, when my music vibrates
through its strands, it feels like dancing
to her little furred feet. How hard
my mother tries to make this home
feel like it, too, sprang from somewhere inside us
was not fabricated
on the cheap by some contractor
intent on cutting corners. You could cut
into these walls, years from now
and find initials, or bones, or notes
I’ve stuffed into the grate, but more likely
just a sheet of useless insulation
made of more timbrous strands, thickets
all the way down
If I too were a spider, would she guide me
picking my way through
her sideways labyrinth?
Would she help me
uncover underworlds full
of hiding places, or would I simply know
how to survive
because, flesh of her flesh
I shared her instincts?
Victim: Helen Pasiphae Marsalis | Sex: F | Age: 44
Trichonephila clavipes
is a very good mother. She can make
seven kinds of silk, one to shield
her eggs until they’re ready to hatch
and another to trap
her moths, immobilized
with a shot from her throat
I don’t imagine she’s ever confused
one for the other, wrapped her spiderling
in a shrinking shroud, or speared it
with her infecting paralysis
obstructed nature’s law
to let it hatch, free, and disperse
his roar is louder now
but to a spider, is it louder
than the splattering rain that ricochets
off the windowsill, every drop a bomb?
On quieter nights, my mother sang
me stories about spiders and waterspouts
hopeless pursuits, dreams of escape
somewhere to the north, or just up
I guess what our homes have in common
is the way they both leak
both shake
in this animal thunder. Knowing the words
is no more use to me than to her, they are
only a tangle of threat
and the memories of threat, and anyway
I think she can see me through the glass.
Scene processed for evidence: Y
Photographs taken: Y
Items taken to crime lab: Y
She is smart enough
like I am, to build her refuge
in the corner, undetectable
I have pressed my nose against the window
lain here to whisper to her not to forget
to write the truth on the walls
of her home, so she’ll know
how to survive, so that in these short weeks
of her life, she will understand
she will not forget me
and one of us
will find our way out
Additional victims: Tomasina Marsalis | Sex: F | Age: 16
Witnesses: None
Caitlin Townsend (they/them) is a queer writer living in Lekwungen Territory (Victoria, BC). Their work seeks to dissolve imagined borders between the human and natural worlds, confront imposed hierarchies, and explore how land and other forms of life create meaning. They hold an MPhil from the University of Cambridge.