June: the ants do what ants do to a wounded thing.They hunger. I do too. You’ll find me unabashedly bitingthe heads off flowers. Grinding the petals betweenmy crooked teeth. I’ve grown tired of metaphors.Of being pleasant. I’ve tried hard to forget about the boyshot down near the empty parking lot. The girls who keepvanishing in the desert, near dusk. Some found hog-tied,some not found at all. Each one still a prayer insidea mother’s mouth. A bead in a necklace they hold with their fists.Somedays, I forget the last names of the ones I’ve loved.Rub my hands together to conjure up heat, to remember.I’ve stayed up all night, pushing away my darkness.Outside, there’s a buck who walks around the cathedral grounds.Looking for lost fawns. Sometimes, I almost believe it’s you.Reminding me of my good fortune. Telling me to stayuntamed. Hell-bent. Soon, I’ll take the body of a man,a stranger, a good brother, on my tongue. Lord, deliver mefrom harm. Rid the fear in my throat. I want to believe.Wholeheartedly. I do. Without shame. Believe. One day.You’ll remove the smell of gunpowder from my skin.