If this country turns us into bugs,
may we grow fierce wings against its wishes.
Defending ourselves, may we bite
its evil eye—bloody its vision, unable, for a time,
to turn the rest of our people into fleas and ragged moths.
When this country swings, may we dart the swatter.
When it raids, may we flee the poison clouds.
When this country calls the exterminator,
may we receive warning an hour before he arrives
at our house with pest professionals schooled in every glue.
In that hopeless hour, may we grow
to such massive size, their fumes cannot hurt our smallest fly.
Copyright © 2026 by Michael Walsh. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 3, 2026, by the Academy of American Poets.
