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