AN AFFLICTION BY ANY OTHER NAME

My mother
(who was not alone
in this, in my small Southwest
Kansas town) always called cicadas
locusts; this

confused me
when Grandma Schawo taught us about
the Exodus in Sunday
school. Aside from the
noise, they seem

to me an
inoffensive sort
of plague, something God might send
were He feeling peevish rather than
wrathful – though

on hot nights
when that metallic grinding buzz will
not let up, I can see how
sound might feel a lot
like smiting.

Steve Brisendine lives, works, and remains unbeaten against The New York Times crossword in Mission, KS. He is the author of five collections of poetry, most recently full of old books and silence (Alien Buddha Press, 2024) and Beyond the Wall Cloud of Sleep (Spartan Press, 2024). His work has appeared in Modern Haiku, I-70 Review, Flint Hills Review and other publications and compilations. He has no degrees, one tattoo and a deep and unironic fondness for strip-mall Chinese restaurants. In his spare time, he tries to make himself seem far more interesting than he actually is.