We try to salvage the skull and spine that I find in a cave in the forest. The black rot-eating bugs are so gross, yet graceful. They exit quickly when exposed to the light, curling tarsi banded dark and darker like onyx in their final hideous coil and drop through the empty sockets. We should be more thankful to those who eat the death away. What do you have to offer?
You would say that. You would say that her voice is so sweet and soothing, so sweet and soothing as I sit here seven years later with no song on my lips, but a silver Saint Benedict medal lost in the darkness between my breasts. What's it for, you ask, the saint? Exorcism, I say, but that's a secret. How have you been? I have fingernails now. They're red.
He likes the Jesus on my pewter crucifix, likes its skinny legs. He says it looks like a walking stick bug or a hypodermic needle. I think it looks like him.
I put myself in danger to save a wasp drowning in the stream. He doesn't understand why I love these bugs. These bones and these sad stories.
I say, you know, it's that feeling, so soothing, no sting, so soothing- when she makes it, when she flies away, when she doesn't even say thank you.
Today I am in love with Rihanna and Saint Therese of the Child Jesus.
Understand or not. I don't care.