AN AMERICAN TALE

When I woke up this morning, there was a beetle under a small, glass canning jar next to the toilet.

I tell everyone that I love him, so it must be true;

but today, I can’t stop thinking about the cookies he eats before bed

and the study-abroad packets in the recycling

and the beetle under a small, glass canning jar next to the toilet.

Every time I go to the bathroom, I remember again

and for the briefest moment, I am there on my back beside him—

We lay, side by side

          our heaving chests never betraying the growing shallowness of our breaths

and stare out at the kaleidoscope of beige.

In cut-glass facets we forget life in any other way

in any other place

with any other smell.

The linoleum beneath us is the only grass we’ve ever known.