Every autumn I forget they do this,
until they do –
hard-faced carapaces,
little mechanical legs
across my bedroom ceiling
insinuating into warm gaps,
congregating under cornices,
black-eyed blotches staring me down.
Ladybird, ladybird fly away home
Your house is on fire, and your children are gone
Occasionally, a maverick, lured by the mellow glow
of the bedside light, will lift its elytra,
like the doors on a Lamborghini
to reveal filmy black wings,
and fly towards my open mouth.
Ladybird, lazy bird fly out of bed
Your home is infested …
but I shrink back from scooping its crunchiness
into tissue, messing
with its reflex bleeding, yellow toxins oozing
out of its exoskeleton.
All except one and that’s little Ann
(The receptionist had a tattoo on her arm.
In its freckled baby belly, Always in my heart)
For she crept under the frying pan
For she crept under the counterpane