Sunday, April 3, 2016

Lay Your Eggs on Me

A tiny female beetle clambers over the bristles of my arm.
I split her in two with my thumbnail and spread the halves wide
and dive right in. All six of her creamy thighs twitch
and she opens her beak to reveal a thousand tiny parts
whirring inside. Her eyes are hard black mirrors
reflecting nothing but themselves. I suck on her antennae
to calm her down and soon her cracked shell is oozing honey
and I sit in it and splash in the sticky puddles, then crane
my segmented neck backwards to lick the prize
dangling deep within her: a twinkly crystal teardrop
that causes the tip of my tongue to tingle. I carefully unfold
her stained glass wings then one by one shatter the panes,
pressing the shards into my face where they stick out like rays,
every facet catching the light when I twist my head.
Soon we are both laughing as only insects can,
slipping on royal jelly and larval afterbirth,
rolling around on the crushed bodies of our adversaries.
We hurl clumps of gooey egg sacs at one another,
before drifting off to sleep with our thoraxes pressed together,
protected from the sun beneath a single hungry leaf.

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