Here in these bitten rooms
we wake to find our bodies are no longer our own.
Whilst we slept
our flesh became a rich soil where the insects built their homes.
Our fingers bloat with poison and there are webs between our toes.
The grasshoppers staked out your belly
and the beetles claimed my arms
when they make war
it's polished black clashing with striped yellow armour
thread-legged and spurred.
It takes all day to clear our skin of their watch-towers
and pull their flagpoles from our pores.
I call my sister and I tell her that I am homesick
and that the days just melt away from me.
She promises that no time is ever wasted
no matter how empty it seems.
And I don't know if I agree
but I'm tired enough to believe.
She says, "well, what have you learned?".
So I explain how each evening some unseen conductor
raises a steady arm.
And the troubled voices of the cicada chorus rise to a roar.
And the moths resume their nightly chore
fulfilling that old metaphor:
Don't mistake your guide for what you're looking for.
And my sister says, "well then, there you are".
She is wise and always settles on a moral.
So when you grant me a little love I will not try to crack its' shell.
For anything that you might show me is not contained within you
but in what you reveal.
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