Rebecca Villineau lives and writes in Massachusetts. 

The Roaches in my Grandmother’s Kitchen
By Rebecca Villineau

Hide until the lights flick off,
then emerge like dancers.
In a choreography of theft,
they attack the butter
left to soften on her table.
Saltine crackers in pieces under each chair.
I hear them from the couch I rest.
From beneath the noise of my
Grandmother’s deep tired snores
and the dog’s dreams of strangers.
Their clicking, tapping living sounds.
Till sleep comes and I forget about the dangers
of one crawling in the ear or settling on the pillow.
Instead, I wake to my grandmother
like a garden in her kitchen wearing a nightgown of english wild flowers,
lifting each perfect fried egg from pan to dish and leaning
into kiss me with her cigarette
in a steadied hand.