death like a moon and broken teeth

You caught the mosquitoes trying to land on my face.
If you were a wall and I was a moth
this wouldn't be happening.

You say I should take all the dead bugs collecting on my floor,
lacquer them beautiful,
and pin them up next to the poster I painted of Romania in the eighth grade.
You told me someone once gave you still-born kittens
preserved in formaldehyde
and you kept them in a jar like some kind of trophy
until one of your roommates found it too repulsive
and hurled them out a window.

We found death teetering on rock cliffs,
the smell of carrion sifting through the woods,
blood lust coyotes hunting in emaciated packs.
I tried to dream up moments when things would taste pleasant,
but could only imagine myself, seven years old,
running full tilt into the algae pond until someone screamed
and someone leapt and caught me, saving me from the dangers
of bacteria and mold.

I am barefoot, now,
laughing at the cold flare of September sunsets;
I am dancing naked down the stairs.

I am running with broken sneaker soles down caving wooden steps,
catching death like a firefly,
catching your bright eyes like uncaged light,

displacing the moon with the reflections I cast
in the shadows I forget.