We don’t know it yet, but graveyards are numbered and we all have to rest

I exist within the bad caulk job

between my storm door and the deadbolted lock.

I take out ants on the front lines and see them behind my eyes,

getting in when I'm snoozing. I voyeur

my antique dolls hanging

from the ceiling and wonder

how I was ever ten feet tall.

We’re all at war in my bubble, so is it really even happening?

My soulmate names roadkill so he’ll see them in heaven,

so I wish up names before compromising

ants on countertops.

There’s always something there if you look for it: I know.

I must quicken my glance, look out, look up

(when I was a little girl, my first nightmare was about squeezing sewers and monster men, and damn it all if nothing has really changed—I’ve done fuck all but proselytize myself between week-old sheets)

balmy oranges, stinking flesh.

If I pray over enough carrion, can I say god made vulture bees just for me?