← v21n3, Spring 2023
Poetry · Volume 21, Number 3

The Junebugs

Hey boy come here—quick,

so he dropped his rake and

ran to the yard by the house

where probably five hundred

junebugs like a pile of emeralds

and rubies glistened crawling

over each other under each other

in the grass. By god look at them

fornicating, he said and his son

said Hold on, I got an idea, and ran

to the house for the bundle of

twine and gunpowder he had tied

together into a bomb for such

a purpose and blew an equally

glittering hole into the yard

a foot into the earth and the punch

his father landed reverberated

in his skull for the rest of his life

and when the assassin fired

it was the last thing he saw—

junebugs everywhere crawling

glistening in the tall summer grass.