Dystopiapolis

Dystopiapolis

The morning began with murder.
Cockroaches, my arch nemeses.
Not large, Texas sized roaches, but miniaturized, petite,
antennae flitting to and fro like radar,
proof of their superior intelligence.
To catch them, I must catch them in the act,
rush from the warm slumber of my bed nest,
flick on the lights, and expose their reconnoitering of my walls.
They’ve been watching me it seems,
sending signals via flickering antennae to home base,
marking the steady rise and fall of my chest,
analyzing the goings on of this strange and violent giant as old as time.
What do they want? I wonder. I have no food.
Black mold eats my kitchen counters,
kept at bay only by the occasional air strike of Lysol aerosol spray.
I dare not cook there.

In winter, when the lack of insulation
makes an arctic tundra of my plaster walls,
the cockroaches retreat, out of fear of exposure.
I miss them in those winter months.
I miss my hate of them.
I go to work, sit in my cubicle,
pantomiming the motions of pressing keyboard keys,
making a clicking contribution to the clicking orchestra of my department.
Our manager slides along the cubicle maze,
our pacing conductor, alert for idle notes.
I think about cockroaches.
I plan my attacks and defenses, strategize two moves ahead.

On a Thursday, I opened my fridge,
just to see what it felt like.
The light flickered on, the fridge was empty,
except for one thing, a single cockroach,
standing on a smear of moldy peanut butter,
Its antennae flicked back and forth, intelligently,
as if in accusation, as if to say, “is this all there is?”
I closed the refrigerator door, ashamed.
I had nothing to say to that.

That night, I slept with a weight pressing down on me.
In my half sleep, I thought it incorporeal,
but at last I awoke and knew that it wasn’t.
There was something tangible, sitting there on my chest,
weighing me down.
My fingers found the switch for bedside lamp.
The light came on, and there she was,
a cockroach the size of a human baby.
Her eyes, glassy black orbs, regarded me,
Her armored plates shifted their interlocking segments.
I opened my mouth to scream,
but a sticky foot reached up and clamped my lips shut.
The moment of their retribution had come.
I awaited the killing blow.

Her antennae, like fly fishing poles, leapt and dabbed lightly at my face.
Her mandibles, sharp, wicked things, released a steady murmur of clicks.
The killing blow did not come.
Instead, another foot reached out,
she ran the back of it across my face, caressing.
It was smooth and cold, like a polished stone.
From her mandible lips she cooed,
“My child, my child, come home at last.
My child, my child, we’ve missed you.”
I smiled at mother then. Where had I gone?
That world of men must have been a lonely dream.
My brothers and sisters descended,
marching out from cracks and corners,
up the sheets, over my legs and arms,
their hooked feet embraced me all around.
And together we slept, and slept sweetly,

for we were loved.