A dead bee, basking in the sun on a windowsill, wanted to crawl in my three-year-old hands, I thought. I pinched its wings and lifted; it twitched its wings and dropped. My big toe socket’d the stinger. Of course, tears joined the poison.
I wanted my beagle for comfort. My mom wanted my beagle outside. She opened the door, unable to handle the weaving dog between her legs, when she was looking for a tweezers.
open gate, mommy…
puppy in street, car coming.
puppy come in? The
dog’s muscles get juiced into
cracks of the asphalt by tires.