Insects

                                        This feral pressure of diamond making, 
                                        these alabaster-winged fireflies cover the yard,
                                        and weigh down the garden with their legs at night.

Blue, Federico, write of my favorite color. Blue—like Noah’s planet 
at a pop—delicacies are dreams I dream, paired with blue, crawling 
scar’s lengths up my legs & such wings on green things never seen,
green hums dissolving, birds at feeders thrumming an unplucked zither 

sounding the sex of scarabs sliding in a scuttling seraglio, or ventriloquism, 
my Mamí & her hands groping handle & cord—shorted—a slurping electric 
sweeper pleading—who watches hijito, who cares for me vacuuming every day?
My anger at this is a circle, waiting for a new woman hidden inside a root—

She is a tumble-down brown, red delicious toward new beginnings in the fall,
while my intrepid sister climbs peaks to meet Abominable Elohim, & the other 
juggles her gaggle, three championees of all ages with ease. None of these 

my doing, none of these & my tiresome wife—she laughs, you can’t get it up!
Papí keeps crickets for the iguana that terrify Mamí—she siphons them 
with a Dyson. I could be hungry as an aardvark, but I ain’t that hungry yet—