I almost stepped on a cicada today.
Its wings were orange
and somehow dented
like flakes of paint
once peeled back by old pressure
on a car riddled with
bullet holes.
It was near death,
it barely stirred.
I thought of my grandfather.
Its wings were orange
and somehow dented
like flakes of paint
once peeled back by old pressure
on a car riddled with
bullet holes.
It was near death,
it barely stirred.
I thought of my grandfather.
Dianna recently had the above poem published in her Jog publication "The Heroine Dies". The full manuscript can be read at WISH Publishing, which is currently accepting other micro-chapbook submissions.