There is a Stinkbug in My Room By Woody Moore
There is a stinkbug in my room, Swooping near the light, Its buzz stuttering, when it hits the bulb. I hear the crash and see it fall Straightdown, But before it meets the ground It remembers how To use its tiny wings To float its bulky body and swoopsup. I wonder if, When it came to, it was scared, Because it didn’t know where It was or how it got there. Everytime it falls, I fear it will land on me. It’s not dead yet. Imagine, waking mid-air. It hasn’t stunk up my room yet, either. I’m taking a shower. It takes its time, drowning, I crush it with the shampoo bottle. Now its smell Is all over me. I wonder if, to a bug, Days feel like years. I can feel it land on the back of my neck Just by thinking about it. I can feel myself squished and bleeding. I could also feel someone Rubbingmyback, kissingmyneck, But I’m feeling a stinkbug now - all its little feet. I hope the days just feel like days.
I flush the stinkbug down the toilet. Sitting in my room, on the floor, Back to the wall, My carpet is dotted with both Identifiable and un-identifiable Objects. Paperclip, I have no idea Where you came from. I flushed it down, but today It’s back, humming at the yellow glow. I never use paper clips. Bits of paper. Fuzz. Guitar pick. Wrapper. Hair. Toenails. Clear and stringy. Black and crumpled. Little, round and white. Sometimes I don’t notice. Sometimes I don’t hear the Air-conditioning. Sometimes it’s all I hear. Even the sound of my breath gets all chalky, When the mood’s right.
In Essences
By Rebecca Cobo
LIBERTAS Vol. 26 No. 2
9
