carnivore
my last semester of graduate school
hundreds of ladybugs
invaded my chicago apartment
“invaded”
but i offered the invitation
if i close my eyes
their desperation to escape
thousands of feet on glass
that never breaks
becomes the soft percussion of rain
meeting obliterated stones
embedded in black asphalt
their wings
straining
against the tight
electrified autumn air
of midwest storms
a neon invitation
flickering and humming
in the night
they don’t need much:
the millimeters between a screen and window frame
i remember that my visitors are
carnivores
and wonder
if these symbols of good luck
in their abundance
will devour me
in my sleep
which of these intruders
will get the hands that held you?
the lips that kissed you?
this belly that shrinks from anxious starvation
over months
of wishing
you were as greedy for me
as i am for you?
i remember
being gifted
a ladybug kit
as a child
the sharp green smell
of their panic
and my father
a rancher
teaching me how
farmers release ladybugs
into their fields
tiny predators
hunting
consuming
protecting
what we grow
my mother
inviting them
to her roses
and oleanders
reminding me that they
defend
more than what
sustains us
now
hungry and alone
i invite them in
i sleep uneasily
beneath their swarm
use a pie tin
to catch and release them
into the yard
where the doctoral students
smoke
that week
i break
my own heart
and let you go
years later
i’ll fall in love
with a girl
who craves
abundance
and i’ll dream
for nights
that i’m submerged
in a bathtub of
rosemary and milk
in the dream
my eyes are closed
in pleasure
and i forget that
plenty
means nothing
to the
insatiable
i’ll wake to message a friend:
“maybe
we fertilize
our gardens
with lost loves
like broken eggshells”
but it takes a carnivore
to protect
what we grow
so i’ll leave
the window
facing my garden
cracked open
another invitation
knowing
they don’t need much
just a few millimeters
just an offering
of flesh
of blood
Source: Poetry (February 2022)