FEET. (Colonizers on the Hill)

Some of you have died, 

your soft shells caught onto the forest of petri dishes

But still, 99 of you remain

some perverse manipulation of the old nursery incantation

You’ve taken over my incubator, 

made that old refrigerator a holographic info-graphic of your hot Southern homes.

I feed you, every day, you demand your bug oatmeal

With the stamping of a million steatopygic feet.

It is those limbs which so intrigue me

each adorned with a little sucker punching suction cup.

Sometimes you spread it wide, an Oriental fan

serrated and filled with a million tiny knives.

Other times, its a little bowl

outlined tightline of zippered up purses.

You grip me with those mysterious feet

a minisucle hug from a 7 gram bug

You’re just colonizers, cruel invaders,

bending me to your ultramarine worldview.

But I love you so

your diminutive mandibles covering my thumbs with the smallest kisses.

And so, every day I give you all the hours I don’t have

and kiss those nanoscale, aquamarine feet.




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