NILES BALDWIN / HOW WE EAT THEM IS WITH OUR TONGUE
We kill whatever bugs love our lamplight the most. We go slow with our fingers, until there is so little space between us and them that the only thing left is their death. We move so slowly that even though we are giants, they think they’re alone. We wish we could feel as good as it must feel for them, to live so close to the light that they feel no reason to move. Maybe that’s the thought that brought us to kill them. You can make the parts of them that end up on you disappear, just by rubbing your fingers against each other. I wonder if my cousin would ever do that to me, if I was ever that small. It burns to smudge our fingers against the lightbulb, but it feels wicked good when the hurt goes away. We try to kill enough of them that their killed bodies affect how much light gets into the room. I wish their shadows would project on the wall. We take off the lampshade, put it on our heads. The room seems the same amount of bright if it covers the light or if it covers our eyes. We are too much being a couple of babies to unscrew the lightbulb without turning out the light. When my eyes adjust to the dark, I can see the margins that make my cousin my cousin and everything else the room. I wish I had a sparkler to trace the cousin edges with light. I wish I could shape what my cousin is next. My cousin looks to be holding an ice cream. I hear how my cousin licks at it. I ask my cousin, what are you doing? My cousin says, we are going to need an ice cube. My cousin says, it’s hot in a way you wouldn’t expect. The ice cubes will melt fast on our tongues. They will turn cold the hot saliva we built by licking the light. I’m starting to be able to see enough of my cousin that the voice I hear is from a person and not just from the room. My cousin says, the texture is worth it, says it’s like if you didn’t know rainbow sprinkles were the flavor of different colors. I hate how my eyes adjust enough that I can see that it’s my cousin’s hand coming toward me across the dark. I ready my tongue to pretend the lightbulb is an ice cream cone, but when I hold it, all I can think to do is throw it on the ground and crush it with my shoes. I would do it, too, if I weren’t barefoot. I picture my cousin holding my head down close to the rug and forcing me to taste how the bugs and broken glass mix with where we play. When I take a lick, the bug parts are better than the lightbulb parts. I can tell where my licks have gone on top of where my cousin had licked. Whenever we end up leaving this room, our parents will scold us for whatever they find out we’ve done. If I were to talk back to them, I’d tell them that this is what happens when we aren’t given dessert to eat for weeks. This is what cousins do with their mouths when you give them sugar and then take it away.
Niles Baldwin lives in Kittery, Maine. Other publications of his are in Sleepingfish, Heavy Feather Review, Terrazzo Magazine, HAD, and elsewhere. His first book, a novel titled Her Favorite Cow is forthcoming in Fall 2026 from Long Day Press.