Two ways to write a poem
about your feelings.
First, like an autopsy
on The X-Files: gasping, recoiling,
—Mulder, come look at this—
viscous green shame, pulsating love
that won't die, filmy gray residues of hatred,
a new species of jealousy
antithetical to science—
all as repulsive as it is informative.
The other way—like an entomologist
peering into a humming termite mound
or pinning open the carcass of a beetle
or inserting an electrode into a housefly's brain
or witnessing the explosion of a honeybee drone's penis
or watching a Chinese mantis as she devours her mate
having checked him out and decided
he has more value as a food source
than as a companion.
Clipboard in hand, the Scientist
squeals—Come look at this!—
tearful, swooning, swelling with a strange gratitude
for the intimacy in this connection
to a creature so seldom studied,
so poorly understood, and so worthy of appreciation.