I’m on this boardwalk over the lake, alone
except for the party boat passing
beneath the bridge blasting music,
men waving. I don’t wave back. It’s getting
dark. A pair of lights follow me
like a silent car. I have this fantasy
a kitten wobbles out of the forest
and I have to cradle it
wriggling in my shirt the two miles
home. Instead, I walk through this soft
pelting rain of winged insects. Keep my
mouth closed. When I pass a cornfield,
I think I could be dragged into the corn
field. I hear a rustling either a squirrel or hands
about to seize me by the ankles. The science
of how many spiders you swallow in your sleep
is flawed. It’s more likely I’ll carry home
this six-legged fairy clinging to my collar,
her glass wings clanging at a frequency
too high for human ears. There’s
something called the windshield effect,
which means there aren’t as many
dead bugs splattered on your wind-
shield anymore. And all across America,
the lakes are drying up. Dinosaur tracks
were revealed with claw marks still intact.
A ship dating back to WWII. Perhaps
this monsoon of pale green bugs
is a blessing at my cheek.
I wouldn’t care if the kitten drew blood.
Insects have microscopic claws; that’s how
this one is hooked to me now. It might be
she can’t let go.
This poem first appeared in Subnivean (2023).
—
Cynthia Marie Hoffman is the author of four collections of poetry: Exploding Head, Call Me When You Want to Talk about the Tombstones, Paper Doll Fetus, and Sightseer, all from Persea Books. Essays in TIME, The Sun, Lit Hub, and elsewhere. Poems in Electric Literature, The Believer, The Los Angeles Review, and elsewhere. Cynthia lives in Madison, WI. www.cynthiamariehoffman.com.
