<\/p>\n
The inspector says the name\u2019s a misnomer,<\/p>\n
that the great bugs of my childhood were not,<\/p>\n
in fact, the Florida woods roaches that dwell<\/p>\n
in the fans of cabbage palms and saw palmettos<\/p>\n
(uniformly dark, slow-moving, emitting<\/p>\n
a foul smell) but American cockroaches<\/p>\n
(brown-bodied, tan head), and those are different still<\/p>\n
from the smoky-brown cockroaches creeping across<\/p>\n
my present-tense living room floor in the mornings.<\/p>\n
And still \u201cpalmetto bugs\u201d were what we called them,<\/p>\n
little winged bombs of misery that dropped<\/p>\n
into our beds or rustled behind cupboards<\/p>\n
or scuttled into cracks at a beam of light<\/p>\n
or, worse, flew at the lamp or the hand on the switch.<\/p>\n
At Palmetto High, our unofficial mascot<\/p>\n
paraded the halls in poorly painted murals:<\/p>\n
think smiling blue cartoon palmetto bug<\/p>\n
as Mozart to designate the music wing;<\/p>\n
palmetto bug beside a bust of Shakespeare<\/p>\n
and holding a feathered quill; palmetto bug<\/p>\n
astride a spinning globe. You get the idea.<\/p>\n
If I say the phrase \u201cpalmetto bug\u201d enough,<\/p>\n
do you think it could lose all meaning, the way<\/p>\n
so many swarmed from the bottom row of lockers<\/p>\n
in the girls\u2019 side of the gym that after a while<\/p>\n
we gave up screaming? They became a kind of static<\/p>\n
we ignored. Yet the isolated bug\u2014<\/p>\n
the sudden intrusion on a wall or ceiling<\/p>\n
in a place I should feel safe\u2014still makes me quake<\/p>\n
and call for my husband who doesn\u2019t understand<\/p>\n
my helpless terror, that I am a child again<\/p>\n
in Miami, slipping bare feet into shoes and meeting<\/p>\n
the dry armored back with my soft skin.<\/p>\n
The cold click of toe against wing. The scramble<\/p>\n
of those legs like filaments across my foot,<\/p>\n
and my foot trapped inside. Or the wet smear<\/p>\n
of their crushing. I learned to check my sneakers,<\/p>\n
to tap, then shake them out. A friend tells me<\/p>\n
she attended a dinner party where a roach<\/p>\n
dropped onto a guest\u2019s salad plate, and I think<\/p>\n
of this story every time I host. Each month<\/p>\n
the guy who sprays blames the weather\u2014too hot,<\/em><\/p>\n too cool, too much rain, not enough<\/em>\u2014so we\u2019ve called<\/p>\n his boss, who checks the crawl space and the attic<\/p>\n and finds no scurrying, no sign of nests.<\/p>\n \u201cThey really don\u2019t like living in houses,\u201d<\/p>\n he tells us. \u201cThey\u2019re just passing through.\u201d<\/p>\n He smiles as if this settles everything,<\/p>\n as if the walls that look so safe and solid<\/p>\n weren\u2019t permeable and crawling in the dark.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n my father said without a trace of irony<\/p>\n each time my family drove to Miami Beach<\/p>\n or Coconut Grove or beneath the outstretched arms<\/p>\n of banyan trees on the old canopy roads,<\/p>\n the roads he\u2019d driven since high school. He\u2019d lift<\/p>\n one hand\u2014or both\u2014off of the steering wheel<\/p>\n to gesture at whatever we were passing:<\/p>\n blue bay, cruise ships or pleasure boats, sunlight<\/p>\n on a white bridge, a perfect specimen<\/p>\n of palm. Despite the heat, the traffic, the car-<\/p>\n jackings and home invasions, he says it still:<\/p>\n \u201cAnother day in Paradise.\u201d He can\u2019t<\/p>\n imagine better.<\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u201cAll good things come to an end,\u201d<\/p>\n the owner of a sandwich-and-cupcake shop told me<\/p>\n when I said I was sorry his place was closing.<\/p>\n Then he caught himself: \u201cExcept Paradise.<\/p>\n That has no end.\u201d He was so pleased by the thought<\/p>\n he repeated it and walked off, whistling.<\/p>\n This was the small town where we\u2019d moved for work,<\/p>\n the bakery the only decent place to eat<\/p>\n for miles. We never felt at home living there,<\/p>\n though I\u2019m not sure there\u2019s anywhere I\u2019d feel<\/p>\n at home. Isn\u2019t that why I travel, always<\/p>\n looking for something to make me want to stay?<\/p>\n The baker\u2019s whistle, my father\u2019s sweeping hand\u2014<\/p>\n maybe what I envy is their certainty.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Poem I Wish to Title with the Species Name of My Least Favorite Palmetto Bug but Can\u2019t Because There Are So Many Candidates; or, Another Invasion The inspector says the name\u2019s a misnomer, that the great bugs of my childhood were not, in fact, the Florida woods roaches that dwell in the fans of […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"featured_media":9425,"template":"","categories":[9,49,119],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-9424","article","type-article","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-aquifer","category-literary-features","category-poetry"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n\u201cAnother Day in Paradise,\u201d<\/h4>\n