What's Wrong

What’s Wrong

It’s not that the baby, thinking 

she’d found a piece of candy, ate 

the engorged tick that dropped off 

the dog. The baby did not, 

thank God, eat the tick that bloated

itself to the point of plopping 

soundless as surrender from the folds 

of the dog’s soft underbelly. 

It's not even the thought of how

the baby could have eaten 

the tick gyrating its little legs

like satan’s maestro summoning 

a symphony of sickness  

in the middle of the living room floor,

had we not gotten there before

and found what we thought

was a red M&M, 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 inarguably an itch

tucked between things, and one

that's swelling bigger by the minute.