a poem by Lakshmi Supriya
There is something over there
on the ground
I think it’s a bug
but it’s not moving.
It’s small and rotund and out of place
and there are no crumbs on the floor
and there are no crumbs in the world that large.
There is a unique feeling inside my body that only bugs muster.
What do I do with/to this intruder?
That nasty word—squish. It.
It describes a gross feeling
That tangible, audible crunch.
Probably the only creature I’d willingly kill
Don’t fuck with me coyote.
Some bugs are bigger than others (some bugs are spiders).
And that’s scary.
And also gross.
More stuff to squish.
More comes out.
Potential for odor.
You anticipate yellow insides, spicy mustard.
Bugs don’t have memories.
I think Cobain said that
before his insides came out.
I wish the bug would just fly away.
If I had wings I would.
I think Jenny said that.
How’d you even get in here
with your itsy-bitsy brain?
My residence is not your domain
but you don’t understand
sitting there staring
chaining me to this piteous standoff.
I’m getting up and coming over there.
I’m bringing my shoe, bug,
the one that took your mother.
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