Poems by Ryan Ritchie
By Ryan Ritchie
having been bitten by a poisonous spider once
and
having a scar on my left forearm reminding me of the
pain I felt as the doctor lanced the golf ball-sized puss
from my arm,
you’d think I would have crushed the little fucker who
greeted me this evening inside the windowsill
next to my bed.
but no. I didn’t kill the bastard.
I walked to the kitchen, found a plastic container
and did everything I could to send him outside
without causing physical harm, but
he shimmied and he slipped and
I couldn’t get him inside the Tupperware,
so I decided to let him live because
that’s what I do.
forget that I became vegetarian for ethical purposes.
forget that I became vegan for ethical purposes.
forget that I don’t kill ants when they climb on my leg
as I’m watering the lawn
and
forget that I’m a grown man who changes the channel
when I see those commercials about puppies in shelters or
cows being branded by asshole farmers.
I should have every right to kill spiders.
but I don’t.
now the eight-legged creature from this evening will live inside
the crevice he found between the sill and the screen. and when I
go to sleep, will it remember how close it came to death? or how
I tried to take it outside?
nope.
the little shit’s going to kill me tonight.
“Let Sleeping Cats Lie”
By Ryan Ritchie
his orange and white stripes swirl like a psychedelic lollipop,
the inconsistent bump-bump, bump, bump, bump-bump
against the carpeted floor reminding me
I’m never alone in my battle against the word.
tonight it’s me and a nasty little man who can be as
sweet as sugar when he chooses. his fur rubs against
the back of my right foot, tickling my ankle, but
I don’t move because he can go from sleeping angel
to drawing blood in seconds.
I relish in his comfort, unafraid he might go on the attack.
he’s what they call a fighter, a trooper,
the sort I need to remind me
I’ve got at least six more lives to live.
“Zoey”
By Ryan Ritchie
the sun is closer to up than down when
Zoey climbs between your right arm and your chest.
Shoo!
the internal voice screams, but she remains,
leans her kitten head back, chin to the sky,
yeah, right there, pet me right. there.
You oblige, maniacal laughter,
the beauty of the moment, frame the scene,
a spinning kitten, a drunken couch.
sit upright. more? more. ok. yes, Zoey.
pet. pet. pet.
from the bedroom comes a snore.
you should stop.
you need the sleep but you need this more.
- Ryan Ritchie is a 45-year-old vegan writer from Lomita, California.