When Jenny got lice I invented
New forms of communication
That doubled as games without objectives.
We had conversations through window screens—
I said it was probably more fun that way
From the safety of the utility room’s
Midday gloom amongst the mildewed socks.
Because I didn’t know if a louse
Could hurtle through a screen
I moved back, my back pressed against
The utility room door, (which echoed my heart’s thuds), said
Communication was more meaningful
When effort was involved.
OK, a little exposition:
Jenny’s family lived next door and collected lice
The way some gather refrigerator magnets
Or novelty coins. The lice
Feasted on them. I remember one day
Her family was having a really bad lice day:
As we played “telephone” in the backyard
I leaned in to whisper the repeated message and saw
Tiny bugs scaling strands of hair
Like cars on a multi-layered expressway loop
At rush hour—I even made eye contact
With one; it bared its fangs at me.
From that moment on, “telephone” involved standing
At opposite ends of the yard and screaming
The message at one another.
That all but ended our “telephone” days.
I worried about their pet cockatiel,
Worried it would nibble itself down
To vein-streaked pink skin and then
To nothing at all, though I had to chuckle
At the absurdity of such a thought—
It didn’t even have hair.