Karma
by William Page


If I come back as a silverfish,
you’d need to look quick
to see my face, which anyway
you couldn’t catalog.
I’ll be scurrying fast
to evade your plucking me
into a piece of scented tissue.
The whip of my tiny antenna
will publish my exile
from old texts of the wise and frugal.
But you must remember
though I digest paper
which you think strange
and I may seem to you
less than a blot of ink
and am so small and light
I would not register on your scales,
if you should crush me
as I hurry towards a crack
between wall and baseboard,
to me as wide as heaven and hell,
the silver of my name and trail
will weigh on your mind forever.






Copyright 2019 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.