The Beetle

The Beetle

Somewhere
there is a beetle larger than you are.
I do not know how large you are,
but it does not matter.
The beetle is larger.
The flat of its foot,
and beetles have no feet,
would crush you.

I do not say this to frighten you,
to plague your sleep.
The beetle is probably
many miles from where you are now,
though it is on the march,
its direction indeterminate, unclear.
Let us say, simply,
you have been informed.

One more thing, at least.
The beetle is real.
It is not a creature in a grade B film
or a computer’s spewing.
Nor is it a mutant,
a freakish accident of radiation.
It is a beetle.
It broke from an egg
like a billion other insect eggs,
like a billion other beetles.
Nothing about it seemed unusual.
None in its nest or hive or burrowed hole
thought it special,
destined for more than a brief life
of gnawing, digging with its two front legs
and copulation.

It was a quiet beetle,
keeping mostly to itself.
But it had a passion, ambition.
It had a dream.
More than anything. More even
than the delectable body of a spider
and the thrill of a settled score,
it wanted, however large you are,
to be larger.

Determination, intensity of focus,
the vaunted efficacy of prayer, perhaps—
give it the name that suits you—
the facts are these: Somewhere
there is a beetle larger than you are.
The flat of its foot,
though beetles have no feet,
can crush you. Moreover,
it has begun to move,
its antenni sweeping the landscape
like divining rods.
It has had its fill of water.