June bugs

Iridescent and flappy I scream into your head, get tangled in your hair, creep with sandpapery legs round and round your skull. I am blind to the greens and blues, I don’t see the reds in the same way you do.

I (simply deeply) feel the fruit nearby and I go to it, my wings clickety clackety clicking closer and closer. I have no other motive, no other care. I’ve been dreaming about this moment since conception in your compost pile.
I was that grub you threw back.

Now I want your pulp.

I want the juice to run down my six legs, the orange flesh of a nectarine to stick to my mandibles. I want bits of fig to cling to my back, purple plum on my belly.
That is my pleasure.

But you are in my way. You smell sweet with fallen salvia petals in your hair, dandelion tufts clinging to your eyebrows. I am amused running through your strands as you claw and whimper at my presence. You are my delay, my delight, my happy pause before the reward.

Your fingers catch and swipe me away, I am free again.

Your peaches are exquisite.