My mother studied snails
on a bit-spit of land in the ocean. Bright midday
          slip, she hit her head, battered it to a black

pool of wordlessness. To dream
          you are bitten by a spider reveals a conflict
with your mother. To dream of a snail

          suggests a spiraling inwards
for answers. The concussion made a shell, cool
          well of answers inside a hurricane-

emptied hospital. In the myth, Spider Grandmother
          thought the world
into existence. She threw her dew-dropped web

          into the sky and made the stars.
In her mechanical bed, my mother relearned the names
          for things—flood, daughter, glove—lights

flickering on in her planetarium.