Sarah Bonifacio

Sketch of a Bug in the Sink

Do I dare disturb the universe?
was not what I asked.
I remember, instead,
my tall yellow brother who said:
Touch it, it's only a bug.
A fly, an ant, a white grasshopper,
a lady bug balanced on its shell,
throwing up its legs,
struggling to flip
back down. Helpless--
helpless! Yet I do not dare
touch, do not dare
turn over its shell to
stand it up, examine it
beneath the light or poke
it out of fear that
it will what?
Grow up?
Ejaculate a poison
from its tweezer mouth
and take revenge?

It's turned into a monster
slipping there, tumbling over
water beads and spit.
It wants my forgiveness,
it wants me to assert its
existence, it wants me
to write it a letter, will I
write it a letter? No one
has ever wanted to preserve it.
No one thinks it is important,
lying there, its legs like burnt wires:

Twitching a little, wincing a little,
shivering a little from the hiss
of the radiator, the creak of my foot
against the stool, my hot laser
squint: The mirror flickers;
and a mint globe of toothpaste
crashes upon its head--

a weight that paralyzes it.
Rips its body from the concave surface,
and hurls it to the silver crags.