At night, the sun stalks

behind pines and brims

my brothers smoke.

I can see the asthma

in his breath, jetting

into shadows, bouncing

through the outside heat.

We light citrus and greet

frogs, the beetles clasp

into walls. You think their

minds go numb? Dane

asks, his voice staled

with fog. Inside, Mama

dances with a roach.

I hear it in her pounds,

her weight against

its few grams. The insect

scatters. Never a chance.

Nose goes, Dane says,

and so I save my mother,

powder the house in boric

acid. My skin bubbles,

and I tell myself this 

is for her own good. 

I breathe in what is real,

what is now and alive.

Outside, the swing 

croaks under Dane. Wasps

buzzbomb from the roof.

When I rejoin him,

my heart cuts into itself.

Do you think Mama will

survive this surgery?

He pulls the blunt, absorbs

its influence, reaches

for his inhaler and corrects

what God gave us broken.