qarrtsiluni

The mouse in the drawer
shitting over dish cloths
& towels. The snake on the closet’s
lowest shelf. Spiders in the corners;
crickets. Silverfish, roaches
nesting in cabbage-rose walls.
They appear so… unlovely;
so sleepily common.
Found during our doings,
our common days.
It can seem they wait — for us,
our finding. But that is,
exactly, wrong:
they would be inside,
move through our drawers
our rooms, regardless;
they would do what
they would do. We examine
the lips of glasses,
the tines of forks, inside
our shoes. Canisters
for webs & husks & leavings.
Something inside is wrong.
Something small that is not us.

by RJ Gibson

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