I start in the middle,
picking up speed, a frightened dog.
I lead with my sharpest tooth,
craze my way down this dirt road
to town, or away from town (I’m not sure, I’ve never been).
See me barreling towards you in the amber lights.
Panic like a roof, a low roof over
my clavicle, a tong in my mouth, prying.
Every girl I’ve ever known
fills the doorway, demanding
What can you say for yourself?
And what can a June beetle say, except:
I feel days are wingbeats. I’m careening
my carcass towards the sun’s belly.
Cinder’s caress, a loud pop,
the smell of burning wonder.
I long to pull askew my story,
the one that begins with a girl and ends
with a reason.

Stories, we need, like bread. And yet,
look at the news. Look at the carnage.
Stories kill too. But you? I have to tell you,
you’re braver than me. You got in bed
with your mother’s dying body
and refused to make a bedtime story.