In the ten-second video, the praying mantis tries to fit its own head back on, connected by a slimy white stem.
In the dorm room, I memorize the laminate earthquake plan that cannot be defaced from my door. After the shaking stops, check yourself and others for injuries.
The crane is spooning brick guts from the building next door to be ready for the shaking. They will fit the same facade back on after. The construction team has been safe for 55 days.
I am trying to explain the praying mantis video to everyone in poetry class and it doesn’t land. We try to leave ourselves out of the image.
As a kid, I kicked at dandelion stems. Mostly when the heads had already bloomed. Someone told me, for the first time, I was thoughtless.
Out my window at night, I can see the EXIT sign in the building next door.
It’s explained matter-of-factly that the praying mantis doesn’t know its head is detached.
Someone told me, for the first time, I was right to feel unsafe. My brain worked like a bug then. Two copies of the restraining order were sent out.
The construction team has been safe for so long they forgot to write it down.
A patient explanation envies the patient: it cannot come to you injured. The question envies other questions with less give.
As a kid, I slept through an earthquake and three other kids and another mom shouting about it in the yard.
Everyone in poetry class writes about bug eyes on other people. No one in poetry class writes about the praying mantis.
As a kid, I would turn the spray bottle to a sharp jet and hit individual gnats in the driveway. That was the only time.
I am trying to explain a need so far detached from the body by now.
It’s explained matter-of-factly that the praying mantis knows it’s holding part of an insect, and it’s trying to eat.
Someone told me, for the first time, I was resourceful.
The construction team has been safe for so long the numbers washed the rain off.
Someone told me, for the first time, I was intuitive.
Poetry class is tired of bug eyes. Everyone in poetry class writes about what you see held up by a dandelion stem and your own praying hands.
Who is watching and how? asks the body first thing. The day ties its spinal cord to this sign post and pulls tight.
Gem Arbogast is a Queer poet and musician from Seattle, WA. Currently, they are a poetry reader for Split Lip Magazine, a publicity intern for Poetry Northwest, and an undergraduate at the University of Washington. Their poems appear or are forthcoming in Hooligan Magazine and Cobra Milk, and their music can be heard on Heavenly Creature Records. Find them online @bygemarbogast.