Grasshopper

Jenica Lodde

I hope the plague catches me dancing.
I’ll say I spent all of my money,
wore out my good clothes.
I hope I’m singing
when the last wave smacks me across the mouth.

I was like every woman:
I lived the way I was taught
and begged for what was already mine.

They’ll say when the storm stomped
his little ghost feet on the long grass
she stood on the porch and laughed,
rolled over and showed her stomach,
peddled the air with her paws
like a dog.

I hope instead of my name
they put on the headstone
“Insolent Wench,
didn’t fear rage.”
I hope I become the air-headed legend,
Buxom, thoughtless fool.
Died clean.
Head in a fog
all the way down.