There is a word in her breath that
bleeds a sticky black blood on my
skin. A tar-like resin that coats me.
A cocoon. Inside I am all goo. I wait
to become something with wings
instead of just another ugly insect,
then realize that not all insects are
ugly but all insects do ugly things
at times, like live in New England.
New England is a crowded colony.
Crowded colonies are usually ugly.
There is not enough room in a
crowded colony for things like
beauty. When the humans
start to outnumber insects
everything starts to die, I
know that ruins the metaphor,
it is also true.
“humans are complicated bugs are simple.”
“humans are complicated bugs, and simple,”
and I fell onto the floor.
All goo and no wings.
Wil Gibson currently lives in Humboldt County, California where the trees are big and the fog is thick. He has had collections published by kind people, and has been included in a number of anthologies and lit mags both online and in print with Marsh Hawk Review, Button Poetry, Midwestern Gothic, Drunk in a Midnight Choir, Yellow Chair Review, and many more.