scarab

scarab

three times i had dreamed of the bug screens

entangling my limbs

and beetles breeding more beetles in my hair.

still, i awoke alone.

disconnected.

painting the bugs in my self-portraits,

wondering what it is about the hard, iridescent shell

that seems a perfect machine.

a missile or a bullet.

by late november, i had put this out of my mind.

i thought on moving, and on solitude and dieting.

here, i met scarab.

scarab burrowed beneath my skin in cool confidence.

at first with subtlety;

i then felt the itching irritation:

the pricks which ascend from inside my chest,

like garlic sprouts stabbing through the dirt.

the four-chambered organ which had, for so long,

an impenetrable fortification of scab and wool

had been speared. impaled.

retrospection taunted my skewered, stumbling body.

proudly, i had warmed myself through the first of winter;

i had been prolific,

i had been financially sound.

i had all those things, and friends, and songs i liked.

now, the fat-full and indulgent self beckons,

weak and incapable.

cold.

for the scarab has ripped open my chest.