Elytra
January again when ladybugs
move back in with us, and why not?
We’ve plenty of room. Why do I preen
myself for not crushing one that minces
busy little legs across the counter
as I’d smack a fly that scratched
its hairy head too near a chicken cutlet’s
pink glisten? I catch rats that lurk
in our basement to escape the freeze
and loose them at the dump,
while once I’d have shot them, as I shot
squirrels (so rat-like) off high limbs
on crisp autumn mornings. The boom
of the shotgun shook the forest,
and I still hear their heavy plop in new
red and yellow leaves, and I see
as a thought blood flecking teeth
bared in mid-scream. Would I still salt
a slug? Does the winter of my age
make me squeamish to kill creatures
coeval with our time? I imagine
myself finally gentled, but my rage
belies that. Those who adjure us
to pack weapons in secrecy
upon our persons should be glad
that I demur. Since will remains,
wisdom denies the means. Up
red spotted sheaths lift, like the doors
on DeLorean’s silly car, and wings,
not of gossamer but brittle chitin,
whirr in a flurry of aimless haste.
Her house is forever on fire,
so what can we do but open up
and bump into the wall?
move back in with us, and why not?
We’ve plenty of room. Why do I preen
myself for not crushing one that minces
busy little legs across the counter
as I’d smack a fly that scratched
its hairy head too near a chicken cutlet’s
pink glisten? I catch rats that lurk
in our basement to escape the freeze
and loose them at the dump,
while once I’d have shot them, as I shot
squirrels (so rat-like) off high limbs
on crisp autumn mornings. The boom
of the shotgun shook the forest,
and I still hear their heavy plop in new
red and yellow leaves, and I see
as a thought blood flecking teeth
bared in mid-scream. Would I still salt
a slug? Does the winter of my age
make me squeamish to kill creatures
coeval with our time? I imagine
myself finally gentled, but my rage
belies that. Those who adjure us
to pack weapons in secrecy
upon our persons should be glad
that I demur. Since will remains,
wisdom denies the means. Up
red spotted sheaths lift, like the doors
on DeLorean’s silly car, and wings,
not of gossamer but brittle chitin,
whirr in a flurry of aimless haste.
Her house is forever on fire,
so what can we do but open up
and bump into the wall?
