Egg sacs need to be filled. Built up.
Siphon what you can, girl, the babies are waiting.
Evening’s hazy half-light shields you there,
sidling along screens, idle at the small rips
where a beetle snagged or rust
wore wire down to an entrance. Nearly invisible
even this close—a remote motor whining
its descent. Needle into the blue well.
After you’ve left, knowing nothing of the welt
where your thin straw went in. The fever.
Just this: one hot drop, tar in the belly,
that empty cavity now pulled drum tight.
Wing back slow and steady.









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