Little girls who love
roaches—

who rescue them from
feet and brooms and paper towels—

who scoop them up
in small, cupped hands
to keep them safe,

who peek between their fingers
when I tell them to put it outside,

who hide them in their pockets,
whispering secrets
to skittering legs.

“I don’t have the roach,
Ms. Skyla,” they say,
holding out open hands,
little fingers spread wide.

I do not love roaches,
but I do love
little girls who love
roaches.