Lucille's Roaches

O winged walker,

motley brood

& brood underneath

the underneath. You,

formidable residual,

derelict carried

to this country

by the dread Atlantic

wind. What did you see

to make but yourself

& yourself? Foul

architect, teeming Queen

of rot. Whereas you

survive. Whereas your death

is an industry. Whereas

on the television

in this century

of television

a woman wears you

as a living jewel,

rubied carapace

on a gold leash.

Whereas beauty

was never meant

to be your name—

O harbinger

of harbingers.

O little, unending night.

Whereas murder, too,

was never right—

they’re just a sound

for what we do

to the dark. O

a sound I fear

is the only sound

I know.