STRAWS AND BUGS
Tyler Michael Jacobs
I saw you across campus the other day passing under the carillon in a red jacket, yellow shirt and
blue pants like a gangling walking flower across the concrete design.
Had I not known it was you I may have picked you, and placed you among that growing bouquet of
clay pots and weeds in gardens untended that you find in forgotten neighborhoods as we
drive around at odd hours in the morning, yet I left you in the midst of all those dishes that
pile so high in the dorm room sink. The dorm room in which you spend sleepless nights.
“I’ll do them tomorrow,” your roommate shouts from her room.
There is no soap on the sink and you just say: Ok.
The grass is soft as I lay on it after falling out of your car. You ask if I’m all right.
I say: Yes.
I continue to lay there on the wet grass that soaks my back.
You ask if I need food.
You help me up and the next thing I know is that we’re driving.
As you sit across the table from me at 3am and open straw wrappers from the top to the bottom,
long ways, to preserve some sort of uniqueness as if the alluring colors of the emblems on
your skin aren’t enough, the straw pile grows larger and you tell me all about the absurdity of
I can’t help but look through the bright glistening lenses of your glasses to the hidden eyes beneath,
squinting from your laughter before turning and colliding with a stranger.
“Oh shit,” you say.
Your usual savoir-faire.
The words on the page grow distant as I look down at them when he is around and you smile at him
like colliding beams of light against the belly of stars yet despite these stars I want you to,
like an Orchid Mantis, eat me.
Tyler Michael Jacobs has been previously published in the University of Nebraska at Kearney’s, The Carillon, where he is an English with Writing Emphasis major and minors in Creative Writing..