Through the window of a childhood
home, crickets filled the air with bubbles
that they plucked, stridulations. A rapid-fire
of vanishing rainbows popping
into chirplets. My grandma used to sing
Good night, sleep tight
don’t let the bed bugs bite
if they do, promise
to catch a few
and we’ll cook ‘em up
for the morning.
On a clear summer night, the wind keyed
across the trees, rolling the leaves
like a tambourine. Jingles falling over
dreams. Bubbles floating across the bath
of my eyes, cavitations. I was an audience. Why
wasn’t that enough?
Crickets
January 16, 2017 by 1 Comment
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