by Wendell Hawken
Plates awash in leftover jambalaya,
We drag chairs to face October’s thin sun,
Warmth quieted to blue jay squalls.
Fox-tail tassels shine
With tiny flying things you only see
If you sit still.
A cricket crawls onto my set-down plate,
Works her mandible way across
What sauce I left.
By now she has set her rows of eggs.
The male has died.
Says she might re-marry,
Hands me her sauce-streaked plate
To set down for the cricket.
Living on a farm in the northern Shenandoah Valley, Wendell’s work often reflects a rural lifestyle in which "AI" is assumed to mean "artificial insemination." She earned her MFA in Poetry at Warren Wilson’s Program for Writers. Her publications include three chapbooks and three full collections. A fourth collection is scheduled for publication in June 2022. www.wendellhawken.com