in a childhood bug book
I keep dog-eared, water-stained hopes
the nighttime silhouettes heaving
hands like bricks on my chest
the smell of pineapple rain
when my wet face stuck to your t-shirt

unfurl those back pages
I remember the best kisses like
a battery on my tongue
electric, then the pastor forbade it
or, the husband leaves 13 voicemails
if that was so good, why am I the same?

an elder bartender
and my father
placed their hand on my shoulder
as my wet face licked the piano keys
under the table, unchewed
all those little blue pills in the vomit

I love all my companions
standing with nets
waiting for bugs
so I can name them
for free