Cicada Chest

I remember what the St John’s County sheriff and ex-Marine boot camp drill instructor called out to me as I crawled through the mud in the dark between patches of cicada-filled palmetto and pine stands: “Pain is weakness leaving the body.” Sir, yes sir! He stood me inside the dumpster on bags of school lunch waste while the others ran around it beating on its sides with sticks and yelling, “Pain is weakness leaving the body!” The clamor and the smell and the heat and the humidity all merged together and the mud on my flat chest sucked my metaphorical heart out and when they opened the dumpster again none of it even mattered. “Weakness is pain leaving the body, sir!”

“What!?! Do we have a philosopher here?”

“Sir, yes sir.”

“Alright, Socrates,” he smiled. And nothing else ever came from it.

I still crawl in the mud at night whenever I can, but it’s just not the same without all the noise. But it comes close to my chest when the cicadas emerge again. I consider standing in a dumpster. But the drill instructor is long long gone. Florida nights.

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