Bugs, God, and a Barbeque
We’re in the backyard
adhered by the sun
to thermoplastic lawn chairs
molded in the likeness
of weekend dormancy
with pale and bony legs that
bend to the wills of exhaustion.
You have to work for your breath like a fish
drawing in the yellowness of the air
thickened with hamburger smoke
and a procession of dandelion furs
lingering without a plot
wading on the restive frequency
that distorts the mystery
of summer night horizons.
It’s a dream for I don’t
understand the language you speak
but you wear your expression
like a Hawaiian shirt
and when you speak
flies appear in the crease of your smile
picking ash out of your stubble
and filling the urn of our Weber grill.
And all I can do is watch
flushed by an inquisition of mosquitoes
And a cabal of ants prodding
at my heels for their salt
with their pontificating mandibles.
We never celebrate the bugs
but we must keep them
as their significance relies
on the life of their host
and our significance often
falls on what they take from us.
“But can I hug an apparition,” I replied
I winced from a pinch of an ant
quenched on my cheek.