Bugs

They don’t bite
you when you’re drunk
to the bone.
They crawl into
your sores and wait
for a sober moment,
gnash their tiny teeth
and save their strength.
They dream of eggs
and extended family,
cousins on skid row,
brothers slaughtered in
air-Raid attacks,
wives who have dropped
from sight or else joined
bug cults and turned to religion.
They thirst for blood
and wait for the perfect,
opportune moment to
avenge the loss of
their history.


TS