The Soot Sprites Know Something

Languageless arachnids who’ve mastered the art of levitation? They know something we don’t. Maybe they’re from the future. From another planet. Another galaxy. They squeal warnings to us. Bounce about in agitation because we discount them. Call them soot. Ashes. They can’t take it anymore. Humans label them “unintelligible,” yet it’s a symptom of the Tower of Babel. We’re simple and fail to regard their murmurs for what they are: phonemes, words, sentences . . . omens. We brush them aside with brightly-colored konpeitō. They fall apart. Down to dirt. Take on the most inconspicuous of forms. A demonstration of an action we should mimic. But we pick up a broom every time and sweep the key to saving ourselves under the rug. 

Elizabeth Bates is a Best of the Net and Pushcart-nominated writer living in Washington state with her family. She is the author of poetry chapbooks, Mosaics & Mirages and Rose Gold: Betty White Poems. Twitter: @ElizabethKBates 

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