by David Higdon
Poetry
The tick doesn’t consider words
the way he considers food
or fucking. He doesn’t consider
the balance of choice phrasing
for optimum mass ecologies.
He doesn’t consider listeners
or shared histories, varying frames
of minds or perspective. He doesn’t
consider how we’ll interpret
his regurging of obscenity
and learned grapevine banter.
He does consider how to latch
at my ankle, considers the maps
of each crevice, each sharp angle
of soft skin. He considers how
he sets his mouth parts in thin cutis,
the inside of an ear. He considers
the time required to gestate
in my salt and blood, but lacking
any concern for my struggles.
I’m nothing but an invalid host,
a belly to survey. All you have
to do is suck. Everything given,
you believe you’ve earned.
David Higdon lives with his family in Louisville, Kentucky. He works as a writer and graphic designer.