in a childhood bug book
there are dog-eared, water-wrinkled hopes
of being an entomologist
and then the nighttime silhouettes heaving
hands like breezeblocks on my ribs
I smell pineapple rain here
when my wet cheek stuck to your stomach
unfurl those back pages
antennae, thorax, kissing hips
a battery on my tongue
electrocuted, then the pastor forbade it
or, the ex-husband leaves 13 voicemails
if it was good, why am I the same?
spit shine the glossy cover
an elder bartender
and then my father
held my stained glass wings
as my wet cheek licked the piano keys
unchewed, little-blue, specimens in the sink
nestled on the highest shelf
I name all my companions
standing with nets
waiting for wilder bugs
so I can guess their taxonomies
for free
September 22, 2024
arden briar smith