After My First Kiss

empty locust-husk,
split open, hollow, clamped to the maple
in the backyard: the ghost of something
once seen before evolving into something new
and other, bug-eyed and unsettling,
droning loud and incessant into a
stifling summer night. You never
seem to find the insects themselves.
just the sloughed-off shell
left behind.


Sometimes, in the morning, he smiles at me, and I think I’ll scratch his eyes out.


they look like tiny, ripped-out human hearts.