In keeping with the mysterious quality of the number 13, today I challenge you to write a riddle poem. This poem should describe something without ever naming it. Perhaps each line could be a different metaphor for the same object? Maybe the title of the poem can be the “answer” to the riddle. The result could be a bit like our Day One poems of negation, but the lines don’t need to be expressed in negatives.
Running from my capture machine
of paper cup and envelope,
she scuttled under the bed skirt.
Now she lies in wait for that first opportunity,
to scurry back up the white sail of sheet
flapping over my huge body.
Covered up to my chin, I dread she will pounce.
Both of us wrapped in our own fears.
I know she just wants somewhere
to light, to spin, to grow fat and contented.
She has made a bad choice, the wrong turn.
I’ve done it myself many times.
Trapped in a tomb of her own making,
dust-covered carpet and shadows,
she won’t come out.
Soon she’ll molder to dust herself.
I could try to find her, but know I won’t.