Hardened Sap

I hold the pendant up to the kitchen bulb,

watching the honey-colored light go through.

There’s a mosquito inside, a tiny, dark bulb

perfectly preserved in a coffin of glue.

One leg is bent back, a thin, crooked hair

frozen in the middle of a frantic, old flight.

A bubble of prehistoric, stale air

is trapped by its wing in the yellowy light.

It’s beautiful, I guess, the way the rot stopped,

but I look at the sink and the bills on the tray.

We’re just like the bug when the heavy sap dropped—

staying exactly this way until we turn into clay.