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.