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We scoop them from sills,

eager to let them crawl the terrain

of our cupped palms, keep them

in jars, add stiff blades of grass, capfuls

of water, handfuls of dandelion.


But then we notice more,

clinging to walls, edging

doorframes, windows.

We find them in bed sheets,

the coffee pot, the baby’s round fist.


We spray poison

till red-orange bodies

litter the carpet,

some round and red

as moonseed berries,

some rolled on their backs,

black legs laced together,

sheer wings folded tight

inside shells tipped

like tiny, overflowing cups.


Published by Two Review 2011