Cockroaches

...an old poem of mine that I shared last month at the annual Western Women's Tracking Conference (in Cuyama Valley high desert) and it had them laughing, so I'm sharing it here now.


Cockroaches


First I am going to pretend they're really not there on the floor -

maybe two or three to clean the crusted oatmeal off the stove,

but I don't want to think what the dozens do in the food pantry

at night - like what's with that funky taste in the ground corn?!


I declare war on the fuckers. I'll kill each one with my bare

hands, or do it real nasty and bomb the place to hell. Or run

and hide. Or refuse to touch anything near them. Tomorrow

I'll make plans to sterilize and disinfect under the fridge...


I'll try a metaphysical approach and live in harmony with all

creatures since aren't they cute with their little grasshopper

heads? Or wonder if those tales are true about that magic

where their carcasses alert others? Fuck. The story may be


science from Africa discovered millennials ago and it's true

the Mayans have never dealt with such obscenities before,

before, fuckers: it's the United States government. See I live

on the wrong side of town and what would my family think?


I saw the photos of the slave quarters in New Orleans, the ones 

with the roaches in their long haul up the wall with the dead

rodent. Fuckers. They make me think of nuclear disaster.

Fuckers. I live for the time they turn on the masters.