Cockroach

That each cockroach has its own face 

is true. Reducing the difference between us

is to bring each mouth closer

to the observing gaze, to any body touched 

too much - abdomen, face parts,

a mouth, of course, and eyes. 

The snail’s tongue is blade-like 

(an uncomfortable implication)

but to slice each cockroach face,

slit and peel it to the brain, proves 

it has no tongue.     

Once I rammed a foot into an ant-hill,

watched bodies pour over tilth.

Always it is eyes, the primacy

of pupils, letting worlds in, 

each insect body crannied,

inverted in the brain.      

I seek reciprocity 

when I feed bees sugar water -

the fur is soft enough 

for the mind to slacken but 

venom rests inside, striped and close

as snipers, smooth guns.    Each wears their own face,

loved, regardless, regardless, 

regardless —   Show us each face

of the cockroach, each individual life

grown into its mask - show us our

hinged faces in the glass.

Sarah Westcott