Each summer I assist or teach the Science Fiction Writer’s Workshop for the University of Kansas. In 2000, I stayed for two weeks in a nearly abandoned dorm that was undergoing renovations.
Five bug poems
1
Just like last year,
the coin-shaped bug in the sink—
small change.
2
The bathroom is filled with a number of bugs,
Some sharp and pointy, and some flat as rugs.
Some bugs are sleepy, and some full of beans
but all bugs unite in ignoring the screens.
3
Spiders like asterisks cling to the ceiling—
footnotes.
4
The male mosquito’s wings hum—
the tiniest air raid drill
5
Summer night—sweating,
I hear a mosquito hum,
“They taste better hot.”
Why I don’t brush my teeth anymore
I’m alone in the bathroom. A bug sidles up.
“That toothpaste sure smells tasty.” It leers.
“Mmmmm,” I say, brushing.
“You sure got a lot of toothpaste there.”
“Mmmmm,” I say.
“But then, there are sure a lot of us bugs,” it says.
“Mmmmm.” I spit.
“More than there are of you,” it says.
“Help yourself,” I say, and back from the bathroom.
© 2000 Kij Johnson