Song of Old Widow Layne Kieschnick
I am slow, I used to jump and chirp waiting for you to come home. They chirp, jump onto the fenced rail: crouch into cricket’s sound are chirping and mocking the time with a fly and fellow june bugs chirp and my friend the fireflies light up at night I sigh at night in a garden, jumping freely among the weeds. Stirring mothy skin, withering in hind legs, sandy skin of arms whither in moving wind, waiting for you, my love, to come home. I watch them screech and hold wings under hips. Holding tomatoes, hands squeezing pulp while they chirp. I stagger shovels and mush line shed walls where I spend my rainy nights small antennae, shedding skin nibble on dead grass during slow hours with my pointed toothpick teeth.