Crickets

by grace pariser

The field was parted, 

a massive head of hair 

with a path wobbling on the scalp of it.

Spare stalks of hay snapped in my fingers,

crumbled softly in my palms,

and the dust was wiped on my knees. 

The hum of crickets is numbing.

You never hear it until you want to,

and when you finally do 

your hands and feet feel outsize,

swollen and buzzing.

I heard the crickets, then, 

saw them, too,

as I looked at my feet

and realized they scattered with each step,

their gangling bodies fleeing from the shorn center

to the tall sides. 

Tens of them, visible all at once, 

leaping into the pale caramel stems.   

I felt like a god, 

and I hated it. 

We couldn't help but listen, 

all of us,

to the nauseating trill of motors 

shaking their fists at the dark orange sun, 

just as it was trying to fall asleep.