The Company Our Bodies Keep

Bugs crawl over us,

anywhere in the body,

some big

and swattable,

most so infinitesimal,

the naked eye

professes no interest.

It doesn’t matter to them

whose flesh they’re

crawling over –

statesman or accountant,

pastor or thief –

we’re just a food source,

a place to hang.

In bug world,

we’re sugar water,

spilled crumbs,

a faucet of blood

and sweat and oxygen.

And then there’s you

running your hands all over me.

Now that’s completely different.