in a childhood bug book
there are dog-eared, water-wrinkled hopes
of being an entomologist
but then the nighttime silhouettes heaving
hands like breezeblocks
and 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 I 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