Ecclesiastes: Thirteen-Year Cicada
our selves less self
than a knowledge
of time. time:
our shell, our salt,
our singing wings.
our wings like flakes
of mica, pining.
the land
tears its skin open
to free us,
& again, to lay us
down to rest.
systole. diastole. in all
directions: imminence;
the land emitting
a smell like love.
in the flash
between beats—
the still
of wholeness. summer,
we ate
& fucked & ate.
day a unit
to measure want.
want inseparable
from need.
deathless, we bury:
our bodies’ present;
our bodies’ future
wearing the shell
of another body.
the land names us
synapse, & we are
memory, waiting
to crack
its borders.
there is no border.
Copyright © 2022 by Marissa Davis. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on August 8, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.