back to James Tate

“Heaven” by James Tate 🇺🇸 (8 Dec 19438 Jul 2015)
I was playing with Peapod, when I suddenly grabbed my head and fell to the floor. The cat came over and sniffed me, but soon got bored and walked away. I squirmed and tossed and finally lay still. I reached up to my head and felt something clinging to my skull. I pulled and pulled, but it wouldn’t come off. Finally, I was able to pinch it off. It was a beetle of some sort, huge and ugly. I got up and threw it in the trash, but only after I was certain it was dead. I felt dizzy and couldn’t walk straight for a minute. I sat down at the kitchen table and soon felt better. I reached for my insect book and looked it up. It was a Yellow Bellied Sawbuck from Brazil. It said it can kill you if attached to the skin for 24 hours. I had no idea how long this one had been attached. I certainly hoped it had been less than 24 hours, but how would I know. I had been to a concert of Brazilian music a few days ago, and I supposed I had picked it up there. I poured myself a glass of milk. Peapod came over and I scratched his head. He rubbed himself against my leg. I tried to stand, but felt wobbly. Then I took a couple of steps and felt better. I made it to the bathroom and relieved myself. On the way back I felt faint and propped myself against the wall. I sat down on the floor and held my head. My head was spinning. I thought I was going to faint. I sat like that for twenty minutes or more. Then I tried standing and I was okay. Peapod wanted to play and I tossed the ball for him. I sat down at the kitchen table again. I reached for the phone and fell over dead, or at least I thought I was dead. I must have lay like that for an hour or so. Then Peapod came over and jumped on the table and bit me on the nose. I wriggled around and opened my eyes. So this is heaven, I thought. It’s just my home, though I think I like it better.