Again, the man in the window

wakes from a dream of June bugs:

fragile with heat, they’d thrown

their bodies into trees and split

like skulls. The man said he was

hungry. The sisters still arrive

some evenings with their Bibles

and a roll of toilet paper. Tonight

they’ll bring fruit salad which he

eats slowly, exploring every grape

and melon ball for the tiny spiders

he sees there, drowned in poison

syrup. Or kiss his eyes. He tries

to choose. He knows that it can

hurt, that prayers can burst from

the mouth. Inside is both of us.



Originally published in Burning House Press