september & the cockroaches are still 

fucking                                  breeding     

hooked penises 

lodged & swimming in roach cunt

i tell him i can’t stop thinking 

about david attenborough 

narrating 90 minutes of hip-hop-tik-tok-hips

thrusting & grinding     swerving & swiveling

stretched & wiggling     little egg sacs 

oozing lube packs     clear jelly

nymphs breaking into their names

patrick     peter     patricia

i stare                        wait 

eyes locked in a cage

match with the screen     i don’t know

if or when he’ll show up again

my boyfriend     slouched on the couch 

his belly     a half-baked potato

phone crinkling as he types 

work email after work email     

every morning’s the same

ritual     i dab a damp napkin along the drywall

scrub crushed roaches as he sits back

relaxed     taps the glass casing of his phone

game     roaches swaddled in white

gelatin bodies squashed & scooped

while i cry     patrick     peter     patricia

i tell him     i never wanted to live

in a cockroach brothel

the oily-sweet-copper-

must smeared like shit

across the bathroom tile 

his pulse fists my cupboards

with pesticide     a swing of axe

body spray     the way he listens

when i say this way to the babies

the bathroom light melts

into ribbons of milk 

chocolate     dutch chocolate     dollops 

of coffee ganache

i stand     propped against the doorway

framed in hollywood 

lighting     yesterday’s starlet     

rediscovered beneath a curved antenna     

bathed in soft toffee aura