Rite of Passage
Anne Carly Abad

into the sink, into the marsh
of suds and rice grains caught by the sieve--
a roach no bigger than my nail.
Its shell catches light
to reveal more gold than
its kind should deserve, so
once it frees itself from the morass,
I anoint it with detergent;
the liquid pools on its carapace,
an emerald adornment.
It writhes under the weight of my
blessing.
It might be screaming, but I have
no capacity to listen to little things
perhaps meant to flourish
in the pit.
I open the tap and baptize it quickly.
The roach stills for a moment
and then swims.
Poet's Notes: The death of small beings must mean something as well. To celebrate such events or to mourn them…makes one think of one's own salvation in the grand scheme of things.
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