An Evening with My Brother
You'd think they'd learn by now. You'd think they'd talk to each other,
he says, shaking his head. I sit on my hands, keeping myself quiet, not saying, They're stink bugs, they can't tell each other not to keep flying towards the light. Instead, I lean back on his bed, staring at the ceiling light. By now, we have memorized their shield-shaped bodies, copper bands of their antennae, blue-metal depressions of their backs. They congregate, preaching from the windowsills. They hold a seance atop the microwave, start a book club on the top shelves, organize a rally in the pantry, beating their wings in unison. He has trouble falling asleep, worried that one will fly into his open mouth. I warm the milk, pour cool water. We count Proth primes, turn on his white noise machine. None of this works. The stink bugs start a drum circle on the dresser, distracting us. Let's play the what if game, I suggest. What if you could write a novel on grains of rice and string them together? What if there was a mountain with only one side?What if the stink bugs were secret agents, spying on us while we slept? We spin new machines and draw altered landscapes until I am out of words and my brother's breathing evens out. I watch him from the floor, letting the stink bugs land on my forearms, bent knees. The lack of light makes them brave, examining my skin. I tip my head close to them, and whisper secrets of survival in their language, making thwip thwip sounds with my tongue, like their wings.
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