Wicked Resuscitation
By: Thomas McDade
I knew a woman
who lived in an old
apartment complex.
Once when we stopped
at her place after partying
she snapped
the light on and it was
as if we'd interrupted a
cockroach Mardi Gras
and I didn't pick that
event out of the blue—
it was precisely that
time of the year.
My friend didn't panic,
said those insects
were preferable to mice.
The bugs quickly scattered
and I wished they'd remained
a minute or so longer
to deep freeze in my mind:
a paper was soon due
on Kafka's Metamorphosis.
I planned to argue
metaphor vs. reality.
Visiting next,
after the monthly
pesticide application.
I picked up five victims
expired in a kitchen corner
closed a fist around them
as if administering some sort
of wicked resuscitation.
Closing my eyes, I imagined
Kafka high on something
better than pesticide doing the same
telling his partying friends
just watch my burdens
someday turn me into one.
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