He climbs on me
by Regis Boff
He climbs on me at night
to do bug things.
“Remember our first time?”
in his mean humming voice
of warm August night locusts.
I come apart.
“Always,” I whimper back to him.
He handsomely smoothes his antennae,
draping them over our pillows,
always the leading man.
“Are you ready to die?”
He hisses, like small talk.
“Yes, I will die.”
He is pleased, and I am safe.
It knew I wasn’t going to tell.
I wrapped him in thick brown paper
and ran straight home
and froze my rape.
I could not leave it there.
Not knowing where it was.
At breakfast he asks,
“So what shall we do today?
So casually that I am confused.
He touches my hand,
his carapace hard and unalive.
I try to stop my thumb from caressing his shell.
In small back and forth dread familiarities.
“What would make you happy?” I say
He grins and I exhale.
I told him tonight his grubs live in me.
I feel them clawing for a way out.
Praying daddy longlegs scraping and burrowing for air.
His head on my stomach listening
and whirrs insect songs to them.
I stroke the needle hairs on his back.
I know he loves me.
My deceit holds no estate in him.
I have vanished.
My deceit holds no estate in him.I have vanished
into what has hurt me.
Life forbids I feel nothing at all.