Vacuuming the beetles

Hundreds of ladybugs huddle together in clumps in the corners where wall & ceiling meet. I point the black tube like a magic wand, a reverse rifle, & the beetles disappear with the briefest of rattles down the vacuum’s plastic throat. This is nothing like hunting, no meditative wait, no tense silence or rush of adrenaline. Snuffing out these house invaders, I feel nothing. I am alone with the sound of the cleaner, which cancels out every competing thought. If there were sound in space, a star would howl like this when it collapsed into itself: detritus from the ceiling, meet the detritus from the floor. Bright clot of color, flame, here’s a sackful of dust in which to gutter. The acrid stench of alarm pheromones grows stronger & stronger, & my stomach heaves with sudden nausea, the body’s impulse to rid itself of itself, starting with the most recent foreign matter.