It’s only the beholder’s
eye, you’ve said,
that makes you
do the things you do—
giving an appellation
to every roach
that’s crossed your path,
believing they’ll
inherit the Earth;
every cavity in the corner
with a piece of camembert—
not a single trap in sight.
A mouse deserves much better
than processed cheese.
We thought you mad
when you spurned each
opportunity—
to rid the rooms of
spiders, the eggs of
brown recluse,
that venom’s miscon-
strued, like the snake’s
out in the desert of
New Mexico,
where you hugged
every cactus like a
cat.
The spawn of every
fly you’d dubbed Mag-
nificent, said the rat
was just a chipmunk
in our scraps—
that fleas were entertainers,
jumping like acro-
bats. And the creatures
of the night? Their bite
just means I love you,
which you uttered
in the halls of junior
high, to the girl
who called you gross,
disgusting, a zit face
to the max,
that day you
came out of the rain,
head and shoulders
slumped like letter f,
hands and mouth of
mud from kissing worms.
Andreas Gripp
August 3, 2024
RF Image
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