Maybe it means nothing, the pile of dead

bugs on the corner of my desk. I smash

another brown recluse with a wire cutter,

fingernail-flick dried flies into wings and legs.

Honky tonk on the stereo, second G&T half gone,

you’re in the kitchen waiting. Give me

ten, I say, and step into the shower.

You are not young. I am not wise. We

are a shock of black-eyed susans wilting.

The box of love crickets you gave me

lies on the floor, lid askew. A branch moves

outside the window. Sunlight shafts

my bedroom and they sing.

The prescription on the plastic envelope reads

“Use 1 gram per vagina weekly.” Lucky me!

I’ll have enough for all my vaginas, I say.

Some women don’t have any, you say.

We drink whiskey from plastic cups.

I ride along your thigh to the only music

that matters: the hum inside my jeans,

more power line than treble clef.

I am young. You have talent and curls.

Clouds clot a sky that only one of us sees.

I steal anger and tomato the shed. This not-me

pleasures in the spurt of pulp and seed,

readies for the next slap of rain.