What's Wrong

WHAT’S WRONG

It’s not that the baby—thinking 

it’d found a piece of candy—ate 

the engorged tick that dropped off 

the dog. The baby did not, 

thankfully, eat the tick that bloated

itself to the point of plopping 

soundless as shadow from the folds

of the soft underbelly of the dog.

It's not even the thought of how

the baby could have eaten 

the tick gyrating its little legs 

like hell's maestro in the middle

of the living room floor

had we not got there before

and found what we thought

was a red M&M and popped it

on the tongue of a purple BIC.

When you’re this full of blood

you never quite can pinpoint exactly 

what the chafing is or where it’s coming

from, but there’s certainly an itch

tucked between things, and one

that's getting bigger by the minute.