It’s hard having been
a plague, all swarm and plunder:
nobody texts you to make plans
for happy hour, nobody asks
if you’ve had a good day
or if you fidget from hunger.
Even plagues desire company
from time to time. In retirement
from my status as a plague
of locusts, I am now the absence
of a plague of locusts.
Sometimes I hear a buzzing
and think friends! But it’s just
the memory of how I used to
make music. I had a song once
and it made the crops weep
but filled me with sky.
Stranger, I need you to
tell me if there is forgiveness
for former plagues
in your system of ethics.
I need you to tell me
if my wings could
sound beauty, not famine.
