The Beetle

The Beetle 2796 2448 Rebecca Kokitus

all broken and yellow as
antique things tend to be

there is beauty in oxidation, in
the elements eating through metal

like larvae         through leaf

the smell of rot—I burrow my face in
like the dust and mildew of

my childhood bed, like my
father’s bulging stomach

finger the sheath of snakeskin,
foreboding, it falls apart like autumn

like me, key worn around her throat,
aphids nesting in the ignition

she awaits cremation,
disassemble, dismember

yellow as mortuary skin, cold as
frozen meat beneath mourning lips

then star matter            then decay
then dream turned mausoleum

in a junkyard

Previously published by Pulp Poets Press.

Header photograph © M.Stone.

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