by Billy Thrasher
In the young night
after streetlights glow,
after the game of ghost in the graveyard,
we walk home
under the arms of the tired tree.
A pulsing buzz
pulls like a magnet
then stops
when we get close.
We jam a stick
in the ground
under the sound, then
tomorrow we find
the shell with its back burst open
from the inside.
The solitary
bronze crisp skeleton,
thin as tissue,
clings to bark as if by static,
beady-brown eyes
like the ball end of a needle pin
stare as we wonder at
this alien from outer space.
With careful fingers, we pinch
the hunched-over stubborn shell,
hoping it doesn’t crumble like dried honey.
We pull and leave a leg
clinging to the tree.
A flawless shell,
we keep as a prisoner,
a trophy that intently stares
out the bedroom window
longing to escape.
About the Author:
Billy Thrasher is a graduate of the MFA program at Lindenwood University. He writes at home, at the coffee shop, at the park, and in his car during lunch breaks. The simple, brief moments in life catch his attention and spark his creativity. He has written works published in Dovecote Magazine, White Wall Review, As You Were: The Military Review, Dunes Review, Rougarou, Outlook Springs, received a Pushcart nominee from Hive Avenue Literary Journal, and published in the Best of BarBar 2024.