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the insect collector
by lynn fister 11-08
October red light on scrub, sea, sand oak
The rattlesnake chose not to be awoke
We slice his belly by candle
And lick the wound.
Open your palm, you
say
Here is the tail.
Flounder.
Please let me have the liver, I say.
Cook it with a little vinegar.
Open your palm, you
say.
Here is the liver.
Who knew fish livers were so warm?
The monarchs pass through these weedy parts
To tongue my flowers, leaves by wing
Like it never happened
Twine
So I fish moth, skipper, butterfly
Sand oats bellow bells ting ting
And crustaceans die of thirst and cry
Furling in my dry and cracked hands
Like it happens
Brine
A horsefly drowning in my spit
A fish crow falls off the line
Face first and clumsy-like
A cloud of dust swells up
Stomach-like
Swine
Young summer boys drive by in truck
Chasing bicycles and killing anything green
All of us
A cloud of dust mothers
There are swarms nearby
Kneading dough in the palm
There are biting flies
Kissing mouth in the shadows.
Five monarchs today
Wings still cough as I pin them down
In holed books shriveled from silverfish
Teach little boys to bring you
Luna moths and common buckeyes
Teach little boys to bring you
Emptied horseshoe crab husks.
And he does.
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