The roof of my car is a burial ground,
lined with corpses of insects I never shook hands with,
lying legs up, motionless, on the roof of my car.
And I guess I deserve that:
parking under their trees, ruining their lushious habitat with
the solid nose of my car,
inched too far forward, like if I accelerate
just a little further I might just
fall off.
They line my roof—the bugs,
that is—and do not scream for help. Rows like sinister coffins
strung together, like chords
you do not want to hear but they still buzz
in your ears, land on the back of your neck
and cause a shiver of notes to slide up your spine.
They lie, face up, on my car and
wait for the engine to rumble,
wait for the reversal
from gravel to cement,
and they do not scream.
Me, on the other hand, well
I scream for them all.
I scream my chords louder than their zinging wings;
I scream my notes above the
noise—above the rows of insects
that line the roof of my car;
I scream until the wintry wind and my persuasive breath and my substandard lungs
strike them stiff,
into not rows but piles;
piles of corpses that sing no notes, hum no lullabies, speak no words.
No more buzzing. I drive away.