Spotted Lanternfly

Villains always get the coolest outfits:
under her spotted and translucent mantle,
poppy red.
Body like a tilted decanter,
pouring poison into local flora, apparently,
and multiplying like plague.

I cannot squish her.
Something here invites me to consider
whether I would not trade all these flowers
for a field of beating wings,
whether I would not rather see a moment
of real evil.

Cave (S)crawl

Crystal caves are the earth’s screams of pain.
Of course she writes her confessional poetry
in the language of geometry.
Is it lucidity to strap on a headlamp
and read your mother’s diary?
Someone with her head in the oven
must feel a final lucent moment.

— Mark Everett Wittmer is a young poet currently living in Baltimore.

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