The Bug

lands on my pretty man’s forearm. Harmless,

it isn’t deadly at all; makes his muscle flutter

— the one that gets his hand to hold mine, or

ball into a fist, or handle a gun. It’s a ladybug,

or an Asian lady beetle everyone mistakes

for a ladybug — eating whatever

it lands on. My pretty man is asleep — at ease, or

plotting like the bug. Or maybe the bug

is a blowfly — eating my pretty man’s tan

from his pretty arm. My man swats it

without waking, as if he’s dreaming of an enemy,

or me. When my pretty man isn’t asleep

he’s got a temper.

 

asleep. He’s wide awake and wants me to tell you

I’m wrong. Blowflies don’t eat skin,

they lay eggs on skin. He knows all about

blowfly larvae. Napoleon used them

to clean war wounds, my cold pretty man

says in that pretty way,

with his cold pretty mouth. He’s eaten plenty

of bugs before. On night watch,

over there. Over there, they’re everywhere.