Mark Smith

Left Out, Left Behind

I used to think locusts made my grandfather deaf.

That summer so many, so loud their cadence cracked sky. That vastness burned to twilight early. 
 
I used to think their eyes—orange bead-splotches among leaves—drew him to the woods to listen.  The fervor of calling after dormancy like his yearning to yell, fill hollow spaces with meaningful vibration.
 
And I used to think locust wings were windows, worlds only he could enter, ways out of a war that still raged—sloshed in his bottle like boots in mud.
 
I now see a locust gnawing on a leaf and think of its ability to emerge, ring long, die as its young burrow holes among roots. 

inner calling
shells litter
summer ground

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About the Author

Mark Smith has published in Modern Haiku, Acorn, Frogpond, The Heron’s Nest, The Red Moon Anthology, Presence, and other outlets.  He works at Frostburg State University and resides in Keyser, West Virginia.

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