William Hathaway, Poet
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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?



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