And I wait

for the right alley
to approach me,
watering the white noise
with my own bedlam, until
over time I loved
the rum laughter and
leathered hands, too. I loved
the cicadas clinging still
to flat surfaces
even after
their ecstatic deaths.

---

Elisa Luna Ady is a writer from Southern California. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in the Adroit Journal, Passages North, Witness Magazine, and elsewhere. She lives in Chicago, where she’s writing about summer as a third space. Someday she wants to tackle zombies. Find her work at www.elunady.net