madagascar hissing cockroaches–

brown as blood, fat as moon drop grapes.

wholesome, repulsive creatures

only an entomologist could love.

my mama the biology lover,

with her swirling burgundy skirts and space buns,

thought they would make gorgeous pets.

at eight years old, i would gingerly prod them

to prove to the boys that i wasn’t squeamish.

like me, the roaches were incensed at the slightest touch.

harmlessly hissing, no other defense.

now, at eighteen, i caress their broad ribbed exoskeletons with my knuckle

while they shuffle around in the oats,

taking microscopic bites of dried pineapple, dog food, and cucumbers.

i scoop them up and serenade them,

and they don’t object,

but absorb my joy

with a mute, reciprocal fondness.

i’ve seen roaches die peacefully in their sleep,

pebble-sized babies climb toilet paper tubes for the first time,

mates lounge around the food dish.

i’ve been startled awake by their short-lived duels,

family feuds,

lovemaking.

roaches (cont.)

what else is there to do but dote on the affairs of roaches

when your own feuds and lovemaking

are put on hold, and

your blissful, precarious state of balance

is shut down and stuffed into quarantine?

all that remains is

madagascar hissing cockroaches–

soporific as wine, undemanding as stones.

not ferocious at all, just touch-starved.