A tiny bug scurries across the counter,
and my hand slams down automatically.
No barrier between its death and my skin.
I barely felt it.
Afterwards, running my hand under water,
I don’t even use soap.
I know that I’ll do it again, and again,
and again. Those small, moving bodies
evoking a nearly instantaneous response.
I track down where they live,
their secret passages, so I know
where exactly to place the poison.
My sons shout, Bug! Bug!
because they know me—
steady stalker of infestation,
grim keeper of a certain, pristine life.
They summon me
to take care of these
So confident are they
in their own
position of safety.
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