CRUNCH

Like a wafer in the rain;
Yellow, sagging,
and dissipating.
Soon, there will be
nothing left
but the shoeprint
of my last witness.
And she will carry me off
like cockroach eggs
on the bottom of her boot.
And at night, I will hatch,
crawl into bed with her
and hiss my poetry;
Antennae waving,
feeling her out
until she rolls over
in the silence of sunrise.
I will be inside the wall,
waiting for her darkness
to invite me out and in again.
Days like this,
the weight of her on me—
I wish I were an insect.
Maybe then, I could take it
or else, crunch.