When I see a bug crawl across
my peripheral, I take a small piece of
paper, and I softly push its legs under.
What feels like miles to the
bug, I soar paper toward an exit, the nearest
window or door, and
I put the bug down and
watch it crawl.
I imagine the 70s, when road trips' tallied by dots of
dead bugs on the windshield was as common as
Amazon packages on front porches. Now, dead bugs
are a rarity as cross-country pelts are made of dirt and
Guns, the true Americana experience of the 21st century.
Before I let the bug go, I take a digital photo on
my cell phone, a document of the species,
my tourist attraction.

I see
freshly picked produce in
even slices atop white plastic stained
by multicolor droplets.
The colors blend like plants under packed ice.
Later, I'm walking,
and I'm reminded of an espresso machine's
buzz. Of my childhood,
family dog cuddling close,
of Warm.
Back in the kitchen, where the produce sits,
there's a dead zebra fly on the snow-lined windowsill.
Not farther, there's a dead basil plant, stuck
in its ***.

If I let it free, if I watered the plant, if I, if I, if I...

But it's early spring, I'm reminded.
Under my feet, crocuses bloom.

If I pick my scales off and prink, move
mountains to paint my flesh, turn red
lilies the wrong hue, I can
live in a world where I choose the
color

until blue and burgundy spots
form on each windowsill.

Look inside to join them watching
me dance
my large dance.

The effluent swam out in front of me
floating with motley leaves
down the street to the sewers.

My clothes slowly
spotted, color slightly darker
than the original,
and I smirked as pools formed in my shoes.

As your feet peddled down the hilly street,
I leaned back from the handlebars to feel
your body pressed to me—
skin to skin, morning dew.

I closed my eyes to let laughter guide us.

Ballerinas pirouetted
in the wind, their dance wafting
lime juice & tequila from tendrils of my hair.

We were a pirate crew without a compass,
but we still managed to steal the night.

I didn’t know how to explain where I go
until I realized

the feeling is the same
as when I was a child
in the town swimming pool
devouring youth
until the corners of my mouth itched blue,
and shivers took over the goosebumps,
and I only focused on the icy way
my arms stirred in the unheated pool.

That’s where I go—
to the cold.

I danced through a sea of pomegranate seeds,
my shoes red and brown
from the muck.

I bathed in it.

I felt like a sapling
sprouting
out from dirt.

Persephone rising from Hades,
a rebirth in the spring.

I then bit an apple
and watched as it browned.