by Jennifer Huang
I see myself everywhere.
Liriodendron, pyrus calleryana, palmate maple—
they dance in my yard to the beat of the rain.
The wind wafts through a melody of the water
scattering all the way down to the sorrels.
My hairs perk up and give me away, my presence an imperfect
harmony. The suckles vibrate and purr.
Tucking themselves, the cicadas
still make themselves heard,
a persistent choir into the night.
How I wish to sing like that. How I wish to hide
from myself. Leaving behind a shadow-self,
cicadas begin to molt, drop and burrow.
My hair grows long and lush,
sheds more and more every week.
I cannot celebrate in silence.
A husk makes the faintest rustle.
The songs of our bodies soon will fade.
Olive, ochre, crimson, helpless—
autumn’s beginning, a twirling decay.