Red sparks fading in a woodpile, bugs glowing in the grass,
I am several years younger and my scars are fresh.
I’m glazed over, sticky with protective mesh, gleaming
like a glow bug that drifts by slow enough to catch
with two pink rolly hands cupped into a net, two
glistening eyeballs, bloodshot and catching light under the lamps,
two empty bottles and a plan. I’m armed with skill as sharp
as broken glass, prickle people who pick me up.
I sob for cash. Tight shoulders, tight smiles, light breaths.
We keep the bonfire burning and speak through brassy rasps
of class, we drink elixers and crawl through the grass
with plastic tubes and square nails and summer dress.