Carmine

I love your hair tonight,
glinting wet beetles
I want to crawl over me.
We are walking to my car, the air

heavy rasping cicadas, but you touch
my shoulder to say, I’m going home
with him. The light gilds
the lens of his glasses
as he stands in the doorway of the bar.

We sit on the concrete
steps to your apartment. You say, he took
off the condom without telling me.
I want biting ant-trails of sweat

to carry away my insides.
At the pharmacy, I pluck butterfly wings
from my wallet to stop
anything from fluttering in you.

You won’t speak to me if I love
anyone else, leaving me
with cochineals blighting
my chest. I can’t hold enough
water for us both to survive.

I meet a lantern girl
who draws the moths out of me.
I need to peel your net
away from my body
before my new wings shed

every scale of brightness.
Her cupped palms brim
with segments of orange, spilling over
to feed every part of me.

You can have the shriveled skin
I wore to love you, but keep
your porchlight out.