beef jerky

we are not tender. we come
from the toughest parts of the animal.
the sundried tongues & the windshield wiper tails. 
summer does not have enough fireflies for us.
their holy lights dot the july blue dark.
i sit shotgun while dad drives. his hands
are beef jerky. his teeth are beef jerky.
his eyes are beef jerky. we are going
to the beer store where the boy at the counter
will be a zoo keeper. his eyes like bees.
i climb the mountains of beer cases.
wonder briefly why they mean so much
to my father. he drinks like each bottle
is a lung. smashed on the driveway.
he told me once that beer is bread.
i thought of mass. the bread becoming body. 
our bodies in bottles. i would choose 
to live inside a green bottle if i had to. 
i love their emerald glow. 
by the cash register there is always a jar
of beef jerky. dad buys me the biggest piece.
i start eating it while he lugs 
just new skeleton into the jeep.
we have roof off even though 
it's going to rain. i chew flesh. my own
or my father's. our tongues, like jump rope.
he carries the cases of beer inside.
i linger on the porch. the fireflies float
like holy bottles in a great river of sweat. 
my father does not say anything else to me
all night. uses his lungs. the fabric walls of the house. 
smells like a drowned moon. all the while, i eat. 
sweet salt. the last bites of the jerky.
an animal running all through the night.