when the carolinian heat makes me frown,
I travel to the willow tree and lay down.
at my feet there is a little June bug,
I almost mistake it's hard, shiny black shell
for a jellybean, like the ones on my rug.
I used to empty the bag, spilling out seashells
on the sandy shag of my bedroom floor.
now I pick up the brown beetle
and imagine lifting it to my mouth.
would it crunch? would the inside
be soft, like a jelly-baby?
mama sees me from the back porch,
and she yells at me to put it down.
I whisper, 'you're alright, little June bug',
smilingly putting the insect on a leaf of grass.
my mind wanders off under the shade of the
weeping willow.
