SHE HATED BATS, GUSANITOS AND UNRAKED MOWED GRASS

At Night, she hated bats,

She said

And I, in turn, replied,   

“They’re good. They eat mosquitoes.”

“They suck your blood,” she said.

“The bugs?,” I asked.

“No, the bats” she said.

In Spring, caterpillars terrified her

And cringed when one crawled near

“Kill it! Kill it!,” she jumps and cries.

“But one day it’ll be a butterfly,” I said.

“Colorful, beautiful, butterflies.”

“They’re creepy, crawly, and hairy, now,"

She answered, unconvinced

It was the same with other things:

Like not raking the lawn after I mowed it

"It's natural mulch," I told her.

"You're just lazy," she replied.

"Don't peel the spuds and cukes.

You're throwing away the best part," she'd say.

"The peel get stuck in my teeth and tastes sour," I would reply.

Thousands of them, there were

Not mosquitoes, bats, grass clippings, or potato peels

But the spaces between the things we saw

And how each saw them

That came between us

Like crawly, hairy, flighty things

That festered, gnawed, and pecked at all those ties

That bound the two of us…

Together