After Urban Butterfly by Chakaia Booker

Consider a tire:
the ugliest part
no sleek metal to reflect
doctored white smiles
no leather to stick to nervous legs
on hot nights
just that awful smell when you
throw on the brakes too quickly
road-worn, scarred
I mean thick, dirt-crusted scars
not the shiny kind that catch the light
when you move your wrist like that
and then the nails—
inoffensively rusty
taming
calloused rubber
into a tangle of skin
ashen belts
folded-over like fat rolls
stretch marks shimmering
visible only from a certain angle
arteries popping out
but where did the blood go?
must’ve dried up
if you lean close you can almost hear
the soft beating of rubber
like wings