1 poem

by Jacqueline Boucher

Jacqueline Boucher lives and writes in Kansas, where she serves as poetry editor for Lammergeier Magazine. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The McNeese Review, New South, Glass, and other magazines. Her life's ambitions are to write a book-length love letter to Hannibal Lecter and to convince her cats to pay rent. She can be found on Twitter @jacqueboucher.

Self-Portrait with Overturned June Beetle

My friend and I catch your glint,

      wiggling penny      on the concrete.

Belly up,           your tarsi wading         hazy

through the cruelty      of a hot

September       sky.      I right you,

     

      but not before I squat        to see

myself reflected           in your abdomen,

      before I snap a photo        of your thigh.

 

Like you, I am sun drunk, & I can’t

      tell sweat    from tears      from floodwater

for the way each collects on my lip,    on

the small of my back.               Like you,

      I am dazzled by the breadth           of prairie sky.

 

Later, I will learn of the way your mandible

      spoils the flesh of a peach, that the surest way

to kill you         is a disease that looks like milk,

     
like sex.      What stone fruit           did I condemn

in leading you to the lip of a puddle?

            What sweet corpses will you leave

along the lawn              because I wanted to save                    

            a beautiful         dying    thing?

 

      Forgive me my gawking.

 

Forgive the things I could have done

      to keep them safe.              We could all use a drink

of water,          a chance to get right.