[from Sad Little Breathing Machine by Matthea Harvey]
Address to an Absent Flea
Reading the sonnet the old way
was impossible once the period
started leaping about. Through
the magnifying glass you seemed
a gadget God, with a suitably
parasitical air. I am trying not
to let making too much of things
become a habit—I read too slowly
already. Little Itch-Ticket whose
menu has only one item on it,
I think it’s important to be specific.
I’ve never felt desire before.
I won’t believe that was accidental
syntax. If a pen were a turret to me
I too might wait, nest in a tapestry
& save my stories for some bloodless day,
but please come back from wherever
you’ve gone. There is so little left.