The Maynard
Fall 2019

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Ladybug, Ladybug

My mom’s boyfriend Nick. Vietnam vet.
Evolutionary biologist. Zookeeper. Tramp.
Vagrant with a 1989 white Toyota van.

Self-contained ecosystems in mason
Jars and kitchen junk. Orange slices
For the ants. Orange peels for the worms.

Tracey lived down the road at the corner
Of a curve, where the grass was never
Mowed and bent in green bamboo wilts

Over cracks in the sidewalk. She had
An early 90s bob, greasy hair plastered
Across her speckled forehead. Red

In her freckles. Red in her hair. Her gums
Would go red when toothy grins showed
Flattened adult teeth in square ends.

Foster care. That’s what they told me
It was. Tracey said, I never had
A home. We made one out of boxes

Blankets and Saltine crackers packed
Next to teddy bears akimbo. Legs splayed
Where the green grass grew and we were lost

In the bamboo forest. I had a bluegreen swim
Suit. Pink ruffle trim in crisscrosses over
My shoulder blades. We went to the West

Edmonton Mall. In the waves, with the artificial
Flow, I lost sight of her and my toes slipped
Off the textured concrete edge. Climbing

Up the ladder toward the lifeguard who asked me
Where is your friend? The first time I felt
Fingers inside me was when Tracey came close

To my face and whispered, Don’t worry
This is supposed to feel good. Her breath
Stink washing over me in the hallway

Bathroom. It’s funny the things you remember.
Brown carpet that smelled like cigarette
Butts and looked like the dry remnants

Of a riverbed. Drained and baking
In the sun. Stark. Bare lightbulbs
Humming in the vanity. White Ivory

Soap that Grandma Jerry used
To make me eat when I swore. Fuck
That’s what adults do to feel good.

When you’re a girl, you take things into you.
Like breathing chlorine through nostrils,
Drowning in recreational wave pools

In February. Like fingers sliding in and out.
Tummy dropping to toes and bluegreen
Swimsuits on ankles. That’s when you can see

Tears on faces near dull vanities
With linoleum countertops curling back
To show particle board from the renovation

Of 1978. Legs shaking, covered
In sweat and he tells me, That’s okay,
I love you anyways. Sometimes

I wonder how much is in me to cover up
Empty aching confusion. Then I remember,
They are always filling me up. To drop me

Down. They say their goodbyes
In slow cadence waves, lapping up
Bluegreen nylon, spandex.

A ladybug crawls across my fingers.
I capture it in a container poked full
Of holes. I hunt aphids

To bring to my carnivorous
Beetles in a margarine tub.
I close the lid. They eat them up.