Birds sit on empty trees,
no more branches-
no more leaves-

Just stark stumps in the ground,
with little birds
perched
as little crowns.

It's easier to talk about
bacon-wrapped pineapple,
than all of the things
no one ever wants
to talk about.

Little girls who love
roaches—

who rescue them from
feet and brooms and paper towels—

who scoop them up
in small, cupped hands
to keep them safe,

who peek between their fingers
when I tell them to put it outside,

who hide them in their pockets,
whispering secrets
to skittering legs.

“I don’t have the roach,
Ms. Skyla,” they say,
holding out open hands,
little fingers spread wide.

I do not love roaches,
but I do love
little girls who love
roaches.