by John Grey
they drenched my head in cockroaches,
insects scattered down my cheeks, my
my shirt, down and then up my pants’
remember that feeling even now, as I lie in
bed with you.
not sweat bubbling from all points in
memory that not even your gentle touch
your fingers scamper around my thigh.
tongue sprints across my lips.
there in your eyes, I see brown carapace,
your hair trickles my brow like feelers.
I am sorry if I roll away,
I reach for the spray can, stain the sheet
when I was young, some kids played a
diabolical trick on me.
yes, I expected love to be a singular
it comes on to me in such numbers.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published
in Examined Life Journal, Studio One, and Columbia
Review, with work upcoming in Leading Edge, Poetry East,
and Midwest Quarterly.