In Praise of the Blue Death-Feigning Beetle

It isn't only nonhuman creatures who live
       on sweetness that turns to rot,

on flesh before it shrinks to carrion
       then bone. Sometimes, we have 

no choice. We solder what scraps 
       we find, fashion these into armor, 

knowing how the body underneath is
       a lesson in smallness and easy 

bruising. The moon spills silver. 
       Even the desert holds its breath 

when dark shadows pass overhead, ready 
       to swoop down for the kill: the signal 

to fold in on ourselves. Consider the iron-
       clad beetle, plated with warts. 

It rolls over in the face of danger,  
       turns into the very idea of death.  

It clicks so still, the world mistakes  
       its blue for gone. I want to learn 

this trick, train my body to disappear 
       in plain view until the coast 

is clear. To come back alive, still 
       stubborn, unruined, not yet done.