Open to All Kenneth Pobo

Cricket Killings


A black sky of crickets
behind stairs. Feet
like lightning over cement.
Small legs rub, sound
of a screw
which won't turn right.


Hunting them, his vision
vanishes along shelves.
He hides
behind a smokescreen of white
insecticide. A shot,
then another. The cricket's
legs surrender like flags.

Shells of the cricket dead
at his feet.
He's taut, a violin.
He crawls between
paralyzed tendons. Night
surrounds him
with high notes driven down.


Hidden in his cellar, a lone
cricket calls to her ancestors.

Drumbeats tap in his skull.
Millions are marching.
By morning he'll be driven
mad—black rifles
pointing at his white
and twitching head.

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