We trap the first one in a baggie to set aside and inspect later.
We name him. The second one, too. We do this until
we run out of baggies and run out of names.
Before we break our lease,
leave bedless and poor,
we ask each other without words:
What if we let them?
Some people don’t react to bites.
We don’t react to bites.
And didn’t they live here before us?
We moved in and they smelled us,
crawled over our cuticles while we slept,
ate from our bodies without us waking.
And after they fed, hid deep in some spring.
But there is shame
to share your bed with hundreds of bodies,
to lose blood, unconscious,
with no scars the next morning,
to wash your own bloodstains from your sheets
and make your bed, again, for them.
Megan Mary Moore is the author of Dwellers (Unsolicited Press, 2019). Her work has appeared in Rattle, Rogue Agent, Drunk Monkeys, and Capulet Mag. She lives in Cincinnati, Ohio where she teaches dance and talks to ghosts. You can visit her at meganmarymoore.com