april morning with cicadasong

​And still I’m traipsing through the fields
 
of wildflowers and grass and foxtails. Beyond
 
these fields are more fields and then more
 
and then the cloudless sky. Bees hovering
 
around coral-colored blooms, I make my way
 
to the river, crowned in clovers and briars,
 
hair more nest than hair, knees stained red
 
with scars. Pluck a peach from the tree rimming
 
someone’s property and pulse it in my hand,
 
inhale the scent of its skin. I’m no good
 
at girlhood—worse yet at being good.
 
Above, the moon swells in blue skies
 
and the cicadas keep screaming.