UNLIKE MANY LAND MAMMALS

Until one day you began dying,

you were the bug of my life. To continue

this metaphor would be profane,

but remember that bug sounds like love

beneath the din

of iTunes across a long, narrow space.

We lived in an extra-long shoe-

box. We lived in the delinquent shadow

of bamboo. We lived as rats

clipped their nails on our walkways,

as humans screamed and punctuated

our infrequent lovemaking.

I am thinking of you in the past tense

to prepare myself for another day.

Reverse of psychology. More

akin to delusion. More like imagination.

More like swimming in a pool

that’s turned green after winter.

I don’t want you gone, mind you.

Far from it, I want to swallow you

and keep you packed in my stomach,

my humming dragonfly.

My nacreous friend on a cloudy day

or my conscience when we’re both

up to our faces in it.