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. |