Like we have nothing else to talk about.
Maybe we don’t. Tick-ridden, each word.
I have a fever. And cockroaches. So
we’re paranoid is what– that we’ll
probe too deep and dislike each other?
Or the opposite. It’s not a date. Right?
All we talk about– our bugs. My home
is filled with bedbugs. You just can’t
see them. Come over, we’ll take
a flashlight to the nooks of
closets. Strain our eyes on top
of chairs to search corners of
ceilings. Remove the bedding,
search around the pillows.
You’d think the topics would
be numerous and multiply.
Ah! A smile, a lull in conversation,
an open window. I open
wide. You pull a flyswatter
from your pocket.
(originally published in Thirteen Myna Birds, Summer 2018)