Ben Parker



There is a strange noise behind the wall
in your bedroom, inside the plug below
the sagging bookshelf. You notice it one morning
while sitting and drinking coffee alone,
waiting for the day to develop slowly
like a Polaroid, bleeding light onto the grey
of the carpet, the blue of the throw on the chair.
When after a second you turn it off
the sound stops abruptly, like crickets
as you pass them tipsy on a warm night.
Turning the plug back on the sound starts up
a few seconds of constant hum, a high frequency
mosquito whine, before it settles back
into the rhythmic buzz. You turn it off: silent crickets.
On: mosquitoes; humid nights under tropical skies.
Off a final time: the streetlights die.


by Ben Parker

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