Green Peas at Stake

Bugs (For April Poetry Month - 2)

Bugs

Sometimes the bugs are too loud,
fantasizing your swat
in their twisted minds and torsos,
as if an acknowledgment.
Maybe they need you to applause
and call out their name, shrieking in
high c’s in your maniacal style.
The lowdown is their torn up endings you
cannot help, as they wait for the campfire
to cook their wings or for their life to coil
around your fingers while your skin,
bitten blue inside your bedroll, smells
of their innards, because like a special treat,
either you or they have to exit the premises.