The truck is a husk, a womb enclosing, mother’s hand squeezing yours before you walk alone across the street. Mother hums and undercooks the eggs. You were too young. Mother rolls on wheels, sometimes the light from her eyes wakes the neighbors. You walk to school alone, and never walk to school. Your hollow bones collapse under weak knees, but god, when you sing. At night, you dig up worms and toss them aside. In the sun, your cold metal tomb is hanging over a sandy cliff, next to the humming sunglass woman. Her barren smile cracks like California, but her desert music is the only good thing in the desert. I saw that lizard let slide her leather husk, and grin like the devil thrusting her fist through the soil. I’ve imagined you plunging your hands through her breasts until they come out of her back like wings. But you don’t see these things, windows are one way mirrors in your metal cage.