Locusts
One day I’ll hear
you are dead. It will come
from some benevolent phone
tree or on the wings
of locusts, an army of ill
will. They will deafen
my ears so I never
hear my name from
your crooked mouth again.
Only the endless circling and
whirr of wings wailing
like a heart beating
itself to death.
This poem was first published by Streetlight Magazine.
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