| Down on Comegys Road, two miles from the Rifle Club that meets Wednesdays, summer to fall, firing into a blackness they call night but I know is a body, in unpaved Kennedyville, not far from the Bight, on five acres of green organic farm, next to the algaed pond that yields the best fishing in all of Kent County (my neighbor says it is a lingering death I deal the trout when he sees me throw the small bodies back), down where the commonest cars are tractors and hayfetchers, and men wave as they pass, briefly bowing a gentleman’s straw hat, you can find the wood cabin where I live, infested with stink bugs. Every day, my boyfriend asks the murder count, making light of my hatred. Even reading I sit, swatter poised on the couch’s arm, all the windows closed, fans off, the whole house listening for the thwat of stink alighting smartly on sun-warmed glass, their soft-backed geometric carapaces calling to be stopped. I did not grow up like this, here on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, but I am most at home now I live with something inside to kill. Copyright © 2014 by James Allen Hall. Used with permission of the author. |
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