i join the stink bugs because i'm sick of this

i follow them back into the wall.
bend my body into their little pentagons.
they don't talk much. my kind of people.
i believe i could stay here. forget about 
cars & radio call-in shows.
that is until i start thinking about 
blue snow cones in the summer.
no matter how badly you want to leave
your nesting brain will always say,
"do you remember how sweet it was?"
the stink bugs are all business. a culture
of quiet legs. when they do talk, it is always
about finding a warmer place to die.
it's morbid to me but to them, it is
just crumb chatter. i suggest the roof
& they all look at me like i am unwell.
one of them discusses the space heater
saying, "right there is my crooked sun."
you can know factually that things 
were not as beautiful as you remember them
but our minds are candy yarn places.
i think my favorite part of being human
was windows. how, for a moment, 
you could fill one. become a television.
a private little movie. watch the snow.
watch the rain. watch a deer rise 
from the dead. i return to the upstairs
defeated & no longer a stink bug. 
they wave goodbye as i put my skin
back into place. i want to be done with
so many things. with lungs & how heavy
they get. with bones & how they turn
into oars. escaping becomes a way of life.
i remember the stink bugs & still crave 
that warmth they worshipped.
their debates over the best places 
to bloom. to burry. the dead are all 
around. insect ghosts & the deer 
tapping his antlers on the window glass.
i ask the stink bugs, "please tell me
i am good enough at being human."
they do not answer because they 
do not know enough to say.