I tell my father, there is a cricket
In the basement
And he says it is cricket season, son
I descend the basement stairs
Stepping into chest-high water
The washer and dryer drowned
Electric humming
I slosh around the perimeter, listening.
And there one cricket is
Floating on the water
Its antennae dot-dot-dashing
As though it were a day at the beach
I wade to within reach
Grab it with my hand
Hold it underwater in my fist
And drown it
its life exiting fast
A gust a breeze dot-dot-dash
All the while I think of epic battles
Of the Great White Whale.
I wake up perpendicular to the bed
Feet pressed onto the wall
My father watching me
The beacon of his cigarette an ember
And then I wake up again
And then I wake up again
And one day I will not awaken
My boy’s bird voice whimpering
Drowned by sorrow
Helpless as a cricket and as soft
Antennae flailing in smoke-filled light
About Eugene Jones Baldwin
I am a writer: non-fiction, fiction, journalism (Alton Telegraph), essays (The Genehouse Chronicles) and have a website: eugenebaldwin.com. I've published a couple dozen short stories and had eleven plays produced. Current projects: "Brother of the Stones" (available on Kindle), a book of short stories; "The Faithful Husband of the Rain, short stories"; "A Black Soldier's Letters Home, WWII,;" "There is No Color in Justice," a commentary on racism; "Ratkillers," a new play.
I am an avocational archaeologist and I take parts of my collection of several thousand Indian artifacts (personal finds) to schools, nature centers, libraries etc. and talk about the 20,000 year history of The First people in Illinois. (See link to website)
I'm also a playwright (eleven plays produced), musician, historian (authority on the Underground Railroad in Illinois, the Tuskegee Airmen) and teacher.
