Human Home

Everything that lives in my belly has wings. 

Wrangling with tired tongues,

 my body hosts insects. 

I swaddle lacewings and sweet cemented flies. 

Lisps captured behind teeth and broken accents in memory,

Katydids hold tight below the lungs.  

They are busy with song,

B-sided and outdated,

The time of yearning poorly produced.  

Coughs slip out hoisting the glide of dreamy state unrefined. 

The pests conjure a perpetual breeze that stirs the dust swept under a stained carpet. 

Vacuumed, at least, when invitation sent. 

Held down by,

Gifted furniture and seamless goodbyes.  

The conviction of cool moon pools. 

To what do I owe my home? 

Downed somewhere where marsh water puddles, 

I know a thing or two of green,

Soft vines, monarch butterflies, and

Of May evenings. 

I stifle the hiccup of hope.

Laugh at the escape attempt,

That candid cacoon. 

No heist of the body yet.