Suddenly I notice that scratching my left arm near the elbow makes a cricket-sound. After being a cricket for a minute or two, I’m ready to be human again, albeit differently. Now I wonder if I was human before. And what if this is a sign that I’m becoming a cricket, or that I’ve really been a cricket all along, or that I was, or will be, a cricket in another life? Such is fall. And so, for days and nights on end, I’m content to sit under the same bush, and as the dust accumulates on and around me, I scratch my elbow, while a cricket inside the house tells her husband how much she loves that rhythmic human sound. And I stop scratching just long enough to listen as he answers with his violin. That’s beautiful, she says. He goes on answering. I start scratching again. Or am I weeping? I can no longer tell the difference. And for that I am glad.
September 2, 2019
Categories: New Poems & Pieces