Cricket

I loved that upside down pentagram on your back,
your broken glass smile, your centipede leg eyebrows.
I loved the way your tongue darted out to lick the grime
accumulated between my accordion ribs, to sponge
the damp wormy hollows scooped by my chirping lungs.
I loved the way you tore into the living,
then daintily dabbed the corner of your lips 
with your spider silk handkerchief.
The way you slathered my arm with honey and mayonnaise.
I loved the way you snapped me up
as if you were the gecko and I was a cricket,
brought home with my brothers in a plastic baggie
from the pet store. I loved your wintry warren: 
the icy columns, the prickly pillars,
the ravine bristling with frozen thistles and waxy clumps of fungus.
I miss that furry mouth, that foamy proboscis.
I miss the nights we spent with our faces stapled together
and our tangled genitals slathered in slowly-drying glue,
all our legs entwined beneath the sticky branches 
that lay in wait, hoping to entrap that fat white grub of the moon.