Beetle Box

I’ve my beetle in a box like yours, so much

like hours spent feelers spread against u-

tilitarian carpet cubicle, hard shell crackled

with pock and divot, forewings tucked away.

On scuttling legs, our bugs crawl in dark,

and yet I dream of some sun dappled meadow

buzz and dewy spongegrass underfoot glow

that emanates from inside, a bioluminescent

soul song that could join a light lattice choir

to spite the sun, if not for lids we keep clamped

tight over boxes, the secret life we keep hid.

If we could only find some sort of release

we would place our bugs in a tabletop maze, race

as a means to compare my bug to yours.

(The boxes don’t open though.) We don’t know whose

is quicker, more beautiful, singing the sweeter song.

All we really know is that there’s something in there

knocking around, and we trust that it’s beetles,

that yours looks something like mine and that

maybe we’re of the same species.