Because I am afraid
of what the night brings: beetle-
bodies, coffee husks, trees humming
with your sweet sap song, I leave you
on the front porch, a warning
to other dusk fliers, the humpbacks,
sticky legs. Do not come
with your paper wings spread, do not
climb my window, tap your legs
on the glass. Poison-slick,
you dizzy in the geraniums, the terracotta
pot. You circle the doormat
on your back, a death dance,
and I think of how many times
I’ve been dive-bombed, crawled upon,
found legs in coffee cups, beer bottles,
orange juice. Look at you—still alive
and twirling near my feet, frantic
for air, for just one more breath.
You beat the damp dark, the sky
full of rain. Your body shriveled
fruit, rough pit, soon rotten. Soon
carried off in the mouths of ants.