The Cricket Vat
by Hollie Dugas
I hear the spirited vibration of the cage
whispering from the far back room
long before I approach the green
receptacle at my grandpa’s old bait
shop each morning—its forefront
painted “CRICKETS” in goosebump
white. I smell the dead, cloying
like old cheese in the lushness
of summer. And outside, the bayou is
breathing more quickly than normal.
I cannot claim omniscience, but I can
imagine that even the smallest forms
of life are rattling wildly with fervor
inside their bodies—in turn,
generating courage in themselves
to move like rogue shadows, within
a bigger, more confounding world.
And, it is a difficult notion to fathom
—the ordeal of life. Perhaps, this is
why I have been feeling, incessantly,
that my own life is shrinking
on itself, that the cosmos is, in fact,
not endless but closing around me
like the fist of a god. Through
the top screen of the vat, I watch
the miniature orchestra build
darkness around a single lightbulb
for heat, singing as they clean
behind the ears located on their
bent knees, competing for warmth
and readying themselves for
a seemingly lesser experience
than my own—a day of separation,
dodging the openings of even tinier
prisons, hands and hooks,
and sticky mouths of hungry fish.
All the while, managing to find
a place in this mystic and merciless
universe to leave their small songs.