J. Estanislao Lopez: In Praise of the Insects that Remain Hidden in the Grass

A wren fetches one last serving of insects
in the yard as dusk stirs competing appetites. 

Some insects attempt to fly away
not knowing they’ve played themselves

straight into the wren’s mouth; others
stay hidden under damp knots of grass.

I rise from my chair, where I had been
making a meal of my regrets. I leave

the wet shelter of shame, spreading wings
of self-forgiveness. I mistake the blankness

of the air for freedom.

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