It’s humid in this field surrounded by miles
of nothing but you and I and grasshoppers. The hot wetness
sticks under my armpits and on the dip of my back.
I would prefer your hand
on the dip of my back.
There are no-see-ums in my brain
and under my eyes and when I cry
they get so fat on the salt, a testament
to how much I love you, or maybe
to my fucked mental health.
Either way, their girth hurts.
I lay pressed daisies in your palm
that only opens when I tug on your fingers
and you hold them in the same way a kind mother
holds a frog her son proudly brought in the house
which is to say you don’t—you let them rest
in your hand as a way of placating me until I leave.
When I’m alone, I crouch in the field
with the grasshoppers and pray
for a taste of their mastery of leaping
effortlessly away from what causes them pain.
EMILY is currently an undergraduate senior at Saint Leo University in St. Leo, Florida, where she is studying English with a specialization in creative writing. Her work has been published in The Dandelion Review, Sandhill Review‘s 2017, 2018, and 2019 issues, and is forthcoming in The Dollhouse. When not writing she can be found cuddling with her five cats and/or devouring frozen pizza.