2 June 2003 | Vol. 3, No. 2

After the Bomb

by HANNAH CRAIG

no more scritch-scratch, black bodies

through grout. No more

crumb-hunters, curry spice tracked

across white tile, beetles in a rainspout.

No more summer crickets posing sibilant

in the foggy bathroom light, rubbing their parts

until you blush, crack the sandal toe,

flex a newspaper. No silverfish scuttling

back down the drain after a long vacation, spiders

stroking their silk capes,

veiling themselves in the dust

from a floor-mop. In the morning, you find

nothing disturbed, no tea leaves scattered,

no holes in the wool-chest, jade floss

of skin escaped. Legs move in an opposite direction;

the body dries out, suspends animation, dies

in a corner closet, the hole behind the sink.

A carapace is just the smallest

thing destroyed; greater the lesser noise,

the creeping and night whistling. Now, alone

in the house that once held itself indomitable,

you think only "what's lost is lost."