I don’t like finding the dead bodies of insects
anywhere ‘round my house.
Don’t get me wrong, I smash and swat and kill
the little buggers when they trespass on my space.
They are disgusting after all, and especially to me;
when I consider how alien they seem,
but still share my ancestry.
How I hate thinking that they still foment
within their genetic recipe
the blueprints for my symmetry.
No, my distaste for finding the leftover husks
of dried out insects comes from the deep
realization that I share that fate with them.
That their grotesque beauty should be
so fragile in the end, and so easily extinguished,
left without ceremony, to be collected in a dustpan.
Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2016. All rights reserved.