In need of air, she unhinged every window, revolving ones downstairs, upstairs skylights, mid-floor French doors, swept into the house the salt-brine, the cricket chirp, the osprey whistle, the sea-current, sound of the Sound, but had not noticed the basement bedroom window shielded by blinds, screen-less. Later that night when they returned home, lights illuminating the downstairs hall, insects inhabited the ground floor rooms. She carried handfuls of creatures across a River Styx— the katydids perched on lampshades, beach tiger beetles shuttling across floorboards, nursery web spiders splotching the ceiling—trying to put back the wild fury she had released. Copyright © 2016 Elise Paschen. Used with permission of the author. |
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