Locusts

One day I’ll hear
you are dead. It will come

from some benevolent phone
tree or on the wings

of locusts, an army of ill
will. They will deafen

my ears so I never
hear my name from

your crooked mouth again.
Only the endless circling and

whirr of wings wailing
like a heart beating

itself to death

Island

Leafing through the journal I
found a forgotten flamingo feather
scavenged from an island filled with sienna skin
skin like yours,
skin I still smell in sleep.

Considerable light is
absorbed In the soft dark of you,
shadows reach for a window
and find a cathedral,

the feather on the night
table glows pink.

Linda Laino is a visual artist, writer and teacher, living for the last eight years in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. She holds an MFA from Virginia Commonwealth University, and loves finding beautiful things on the ground. Her art is here, www.lindalaino.com and some of her writing is here, wordsandpictures.lindlaino.com.