i wakened on my hot, hard bed
upon the pillow lay my head
beneath the pillow i could hear
my little watch was ticking clear
i thought the throbbing of it went
like my continual discontent
i thought it said in every tick
i am so sick so sick so sick
o death come quick come quick come quick
at last we killed the roaches.
mama and me. she sprayed
i swept the ceiling and they fell
dying onto our shoulders, in our hair
covering us with red. the tribe was broken,
the cooking pots were ours again
and we were glad such cleanliness was grace
and when i was 12. only for a few nights
and then not much, my dreams were blood
my hands were blades and it was murder murder
all over the place