Warren Park D

By Wadzi Muzwidzwa

Grasshoppers hid that Harare summer.

The heat needled our backs as we hunched over the earth for any flicker or break.

They saw our thirsty feet soliciting of their sodden soil and shrank beyond peripheral.

Our eyes snapped back and forth, necks elastic, knowing they were there because the grass shivered, though there was no wind.

All the way back to the house, we cupped them between dusty hands, glad to have something wholly ours, though inconsequential.

We pulled off their wings so they could not escape us, and did not understand why they died shortly thereafter, eager as they’d come.