She tongues French toast to her left cheek.
Mom, she says, there’s a bug on the floor
by the fridge. There it is, I say, a stink bug.
Chew and swallow, please, before you talk.
She’s five years old, milk-lipped, all hair and eyes.
Scoop it up, she says, put it outside. Don’t
kill it. The bug stops its scuttling, its marmorated
carapace almost at the shoe pile. Honey
it’s January, I say, it’ll freeze to death in minutes
out in the cold. She chews a big bite, swallows it twice.
Yeah-but outside you didn’t do it. She smears
eggy bread through honey, fills her mouth with gold.