There is an intruder amongst the linens.
I notice him, all legs
and slicked silver from the drain,
fondling with the white sheets near
my toes. His wiggling limbs
observe me, naked. Does he even
have eyes? Can he see the little birthmark
on my left ass cheek, where you used
to say I’d been stabbed in a past life?
What a way to go, I’d thought,
flat on my back
or turned around, blind, as you
kissed me on my celestial puncture wound.
Am I so depraved that this winged creature
could insight the insatiable need
for a tongue in my mouth? Kill the thing, damnit!
I reach for the merciful cup lined
with stale coffee on my nightstand. Not because
I am a saint or a vegan or
a collector of oddities,
but because I do not want to clean the stain.
I trap him in the mug, the one
grandma gave me for Christmas
with the odd lettering, LIVE LAUGH LOVE,
mocking Rae Dunn words
that grandma thinks will help me find Jesus.
Perhaps Jesus is in this bug, trapped
in my ceramic TJ Maxx world.
Oh God, am I
God? God, no, I’m not God!
No, God never considers

the mess. I see the stains
on walks through the park,
tablecloths whisked with marrow,
that lonely dove song in the rafters
of the cathedral, your face
on Christmas morning like a balloon animal, red
and contorted, helium life
in your nasal cavities as the world ends
over and over again.
But today, I leave behind nothing.
Today, the bug lives,
the sheets are clean,
and heaven existed in my cupboard all along.