In 1986, there was a spring break Invasion of grasshoppers In Billings, Montana. Some ridiculous number Of those insects— 30 or 40 per square foot. I crunched across A parking lot to buy beer At a convenience store. Later that night, terrified, Alone, drunk, lost, I ran toward An orange light—a beacon— On the other side of an empty field. How many grasshoppers Did I kill as I chased Salvation? Dozens upon Dozens, I would guess. But it didn’t matter. Those grasshoppers Were as endless as time. Later, after a blackout, I found myself sitting In the backseat Of a cop car. Was I under Arrest? I didn’t know. I asked the cop what Happened and he said That he’d found me Sitting on a curb. The cop said I was shouting About the hordes Of grasshoppers. I asked the cop if I was going to jail And he said no, He was taking me back To my friend’s house. His parents called us, The cop said. They said You’d run away From a basement party. They said you were Crying. They said You were afraid. They said You weren’t dangerous. They said you were sad. And so the cop drove me To my friend’s house, where I stumbled up the stairs And passed out on the carpet In the attic TV room. Hours and hours later, I woke to the Red Hot Chili Peppers on the stereo. I’d pissed and shat My pants. My shirt Was painted With dead grasshoppers. I pulled pieces Of dead grasshoppers From my hair. An inch of dead Grasshoppers was stuck To the soles Of my basketball shoes. Too ashamed to face My friend and his family, I pretended to be asleep For hours and hours more Until, finally, my friend And his mother walked Into the room. You need help, The mother said to me. I know, I said. But it took me Five more years to get Sober. And I’ve been Sober ever since. But, a few times over The years, I’ve dreamed About that night. And, in those dreams I trip and fall in that empty Field, close my eyes, And take my last breath— Another Indian dead In the Montana dirt. But my body is never Found. Instead, The grasshoppers Lift me into the night sky And deliver me To an afterlife Where no human Has ever been. I'm lonely in heaven— A spiritual oxymoron. But, of course, I’m still alive. I was rescued that night, As I’ve been saved Many other times. I’m here, mostly coherent, Because of the love Of family and friends And strangers. It’s hard to believe That I’ve earned And deserve This grace and love. And it’s easy To conceive Of a life where, Unmedicated And abandoned, I live crazily On the streets. I’ve got cousins Who disappeared Into the maw of this Or that city. I could be like them. But, look at me, I’ve become The orange light And the Indian Holding that light. And, as I write This poem, I realize That I’ve encountered Only a handful Of grasshoppers In the decades since That Montana night. Have the grasshoppers Been hiding From me? What is The meaning of grasshoppers? I don’t know. But let’s pretend That grasshoppers Were the first creatures Created by God. Let’s assume that Every person was built From the lovely wings Of grasshoppers. It’s difficult to think Of grasshoppers As beautiful, Just as it’s difficult To think of humans as beautiful. But look at us. We are gorgeous. We are sin and forgiveness. We darken the sky With our collective flight. We are unified in our hungers. We swarm this life.
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