by Alison Jennings

Suppose it’s true, and the Ojibwe are right:  

the world lies trapped by a mammoth Grandmother Spider,

her heavy presence spinning the intricate web of life

in which we writhe,

caught by the magic of horsehair, string, and yarn.

This truth would be unacceptable, if it weren’t so damned funny:

We puny people, so proud of buildings, cities, and constructions

as we struggle to overcome our planet, while all the time

we’re wooden puppets to an indifferent giant insect.

We must keep recognizing the vanity of earthly achievement:

The true story remains untold – the human

imagination is a wildfire, a tangled mess of burning

dreams – bad ones incinerate at first light;

ashes of good dreams

float down

the feather

of the dreamcatcher

to the sleeper below,

who blows them

off his face

when he awakes

and remembers nothing but an inclination to be kinder.