Laura Steadham Smith hourglass thorax and bright blue spots. A hulking rhinoceros beetle whose black body glitters, whose arced pincers look menacing even in death. My mother keeps the box safe from my daughter’s chubby hands, and she smiles. “One day, this will be yours,” she says. Across the parking lot, the sun spins the pines in gold. The light sinks behind the trees. Time is only an idea. My mother is silhouetted in the window, her cheeks the same Vance Hamblen saw years ago. My mother sings an old melody under her breath and smiles. Her eyes soft and easy. My daughter looks spellbound, her mouth a tiny o. Mother looks again at the desiccated bugs on display, at the hollow bodies pinned in place, and she slides the lid shut.
Crab Orchard Review
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