at last we killed the roaches.

mama and me. she sprayed,

i swept the ceiling and they fell

dying onto our shoulders, in our hair

covering us with red. the tribe was broken,

the cooking pots were ours again

and we were glad, such cleanliness was grace

when i was twelve. only for a few nights,

and then not much, my dreams were blood

my hands were blades and it was murder murder

all over the place.

■