Tuesday, September 17, 2013

this is a poem for the cockroach poisoned

How crisp how frail its limbs
twitching still fluidrich

clicking twitching inchlong
too long alien such

a small beast overturned
to turn such revoltings

glossy smooth as wellturned
wood i cannot will not

call it beautiful its
carapace mahoga-

ny impossible the
ladys eyebrow arch

its elegant anten-
nae parabolae and

its small inscrutable
face eyes and mouthparts un

speaking moving clicking
it is this this endless mind

less moving that revolts
tomorrow ended in

the stiff brittle incurl
messageless the last mo-

tion perhaps of us all
i cannot will not call

it beautiful in death --


  1. Love this! You know, Emily, you have a brother who describes bugs and beetles as God's extravagant jewels. I'm not there yet, either. ;)

  2. AI LOVE!
    SO MUCH!

    and yes, I do lurv the bugs, but cockroaches are still...

    I wrote a poem about them, too:

    one million million million of us
    through the count of years have
    scuttled underneath you, little,
    in all our rambling wanderings
    writing for you one word, one
    million million million times repeated:
    who our generations' spawn began,
    who our scuttling foot-joints has created,
    who our thoughtless voice from chitin mouths has spun
    in endless silent sounds spelled
    lightly in the ground again and again and
    again, Him;
    love Him.

    In other news, I read my older sister's poems out loud to my roommates, who are musicians and actors and writers, and they love them all and want to write songs about them.