Bluebottle

Day three, five a.m., and you're back
and I live to be the one to kill you.
Your tongue probes filth along my lips
and sucks the sleep from my eyes. I dream
you're circling the rim of my glass,
so I drink you and your gawky body
bloats within me as you're back-stroking
inside my belly. And I gulp
a gallon of DDT to kill you.
Then I wake, and you're back
contaminating the kitchen.
We share my toast
and juice as I devise your death.

At the market I buy insecticides,
flyswatters and foggers
and I want to kill you
with each one when I get back.

Masked and armed, I scour
through every room geared to kill.
And I'm frantic to find you
trapped between the sheers
and pane, sullying the sill,
still-winged, on your back.