Think of the lightning bug you smashed
when you drove me across town
and rolled your window up and down
to blow the skirt above my knees.

You said, “that is the only part I missed
when you quit smoking cigarettes.”

Me, I have nostalgia for the drag –
a cylinder riding my tongue.
I’ll never get to **** your **** enough.

Tobacco and *** once swam in me
in layers like those Russian nesting dolls.

In my heart, there is the littlest:
someone of a different gender than I
who cuts their hair and papier-mâchés it
where your teeth discolored my thighs.

This runt takes the size of a firefly
but he has no freckles: he must be adult.

Sputter, “I think you’ll smash something
again I think it may be me you wreck
because I am not an insect behind glass.”

and I know you enough to hear you say
you can unravel me like cloth anyway.