cockroach maker

it is the least popular angel's job
to make the cockroaches.
we opened the windows of the apartment.
let the spring teeth bite our faces.
the first cockroach we saw was in the bedroom.
it scurried like a dead dancer, lost 
in the holy daylight. the place
still smelled like fresh paint. the landlord special.
a layer to veil the lives of the other bodies
who had tried to call the place home. 
the angel was in the closet already, working
as fast as she could. her fingers aching
from pressing legs into bodies.
she built the colony all by herself.
i did not want to believe they were there
at first. i wanted to believe it was just
a stray roach from another room
in the building but then night came. 
our lives were still in boxes & from beneath
the fridge the bugs arrived to form rivers.
they feasted at the ankles of our few 
boxes of food. met their deaths in the freezer,
leaving little corpses in a line
right at the entrance. i looked for the angel.
did not find her for weeks. we learned
to put everything we cared about
into plastic bags. the bugs kept coming.
little disciples of a hollow god. 
i had thought the apartment would be
the start of something new & easier
after years of living inside a show. 
when i visited on a tour 
everything glowed. all the window blinds
were drawn & the sun spilled her face. 
when i found the angel she was weeping.
she said, "i'm sorry" instantly. i told her
not to worry. that at least once in 
all our lives, our job has been to haunt
someone else. i beg her to leave. to stop. 
cockroaches at her feet. i do not tell
my roommate. instead, i try to take care of her.
bring her teas & then bowls of cereal.
the cockroaches still marched around her
to make a kind of halo. i gave up.
bought all kinds of poison. cleaned the skeletons
up from the carpet & around the collars
of the apartment. one day she was just gone.
it felt confusing. who had sent her to me
& why did she stay. sometimes i still
mistake my own shadow for hers.
her fingers, working as fast as they could.