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.