'Cicadas Sung for Her', by James Owens
She lay prolapsed, postpartum, on the annoying side of the house
Ken smoked his slow midnight cigarettes down the other way
Punishing heat made the weapon shimmer
That’s not what upset him
This is how we take care of this, he told me
She didn't seem much worried about the pointed gun
Besides the yowling from its own pain, she looked bored
Cicadas sung for her
Ken didn’t sign up for this
A knock on his bedroom door, near his smoky haven
Brought him from online air conditioned love stories
To this sordid fuckin sight
But ain't anyone within fifty miles could’ve helped
So let’s shoot the thing
That's been eating the food Ken puts out
Every morning before a bus ride
Anyway, he blows it to bits
Recoil pushed him away from the house
And everything that bothered him crawled from it
“I'm really tired, dad.”
James Owens is a musician and writer from Austin, Texas. This will be his first publication.