Predictions of the Material

Before the wick rejects

the flame; before the glass salts

the waters, or the rental en route

to your funeral stalls, I worry

the dog isn’t getting enough sun,

& it is midnight but we step out

anyway onto summer’s chow

tongue. Clouds extend the glare

of lightning far off. Before phlox

heads drop, the dog sinks

the anthill gathered full & quick

at the ceiba’s trunk. Nothing swarms

his leg or the river he pisses

into the heart like a god, no arthropod

island, no insect bridge of grappled

spurs. Before sunrise, I turn

a burner high in anticipation, olive oil

dollop ready to smother the pan,

when a moth plummets to the blushing

element. Wings immediately

charred. Let me tell you,

more than once in a parked car

I’ve held the searing buckle

to my chest—before drivethrus,

before driveways, drivel down

philtrum; before the beach, crushing

indistinguishable mounds

in bare feet, a horse conch’s crown

tearing skin. Even anaphora

can’t coax the future. You said, Ay mija,

are you crying again? before dusk

revealed the hook in the pelican’s beak.