Cave Cricket Belly-up, splay-legged, bow-backed to the things in the dark: my mother will die, my father, my kid. Licked with dread. What I can do when you smile at my limp and crawl, my see-through legs rickety and thin. What else is there to do. What else. With no sharp mouth. No poison. No blades or fingers. Bullets. Think. This. Fling myself from under the steps, and there are more of us and more, a rush of sticky legs and heads so strange, so big with pain, so afraid it looks like fearlessness. Aspen Fear is golden, a cold fire on the hill. Its spread and glitter in the wind, clones, women’s tongues set to shiver— I’ll do something, I will— The wind. You won’t. You’ll bend. You’ll fall. Listen harder for the leaf to twist, to cut the air, the flat of the knife all bright edge, sure: bring fire next time See how we’re more here Bad Gardener He’s a stinker, my grandfather would say of con men in soaps, and true, I am: slime mold has run over my stakes, and my sweet peas rot. A thin green opera of self. An operetta? Let’s be real. I’m feeding no one. Fooling, I mean. Grandpa’s groundcherries and truths are now weedy feet of earth darknetting between plants, plots. Half-facts. A failure, a farce. Force. An odor bad with broken fungus, weird growth twirling the wrong way, half diva, half tech. Breathe in. It sucks. Breathe out to the straggler shoving for the sun anyway, turning the air and water and me to itself, making it up.