bugs for her

it isn’t healthy, things she’s been doing

lately; the mixed-metaphors and walking

in circles in grocery stores—she’s done

this all before, years ago, weaving a careful web,

a comforting safety net to catch

her grief, a slippery thing, but she’s alone,

the only spider that hasn’t buried itself under

scorching beds of dry sand, desert feelings

tried holding her but she evades capture

lapsing eyes and hollow cries and

all the fireflies glow for her at night

committing suicide in windshields

and porch lights, I—

never asked her if she was alright


it isn’t healthy, I know, but her heart

lately, hasn’t been beating right

squirming behind the glass case

like a worm freshly pinned through the middle

put it on display while its life fades

our love, she claims, is the drowned

body of a dragonfly caught in a pool filter

spinning, spinning, spinning among dead flies,

a travesty to see perished such a beauty

and the stinkbugs, she says, are pilgrimaging

to purge their souls of sins

but the holy city’s closed its gates

so none of the pilgrims will be saved

they wander and wonder, weak and weeping

to be let in, to be let in… I

never asked her if she was okay


it isn’t healthy, these revolutions

lately; her body quivering like the wings

of moths newly hatched, quivering 

like a creature with a short lifespan

she’s been following streams of leaf-cutter 

ants; the only highways, she says, where

you won’t end up dead. Her fingers

collecting leaves as if she’s one of them

camouflaging bruised tissue with scraps of green

our love, she whispers, is like eating bees

easy, bodies brittle under the pressure of teeth but

painful to swallow, stingers sinking into soft flesh

makes her sometimes want to vomit for protection 

our love, she gasps, it clogs, is suffoca—

suffocating. I don’t ask why she’s breaking

afraid to know if maybe I’m the reason 

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