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.
“This poem was the first I wrote for my Ecclesiastes series. The term ‘Ecclesiastes’ has oft-discussed origins, but is generally regarded as meaning a member of an assembly, and often as someone teaching or preaching to that assembly. I was drawn to the idea of different aspects of the natural world coming together to share their knowledge, to remind us of the essential things—the Earth’s power, its cyclic balance, its inclination towards change, its intrinsic connectedness—that we humans, in considering ourselves to be special, separate, superior beings, have tended to set aside and forget.”
—Marissa Davis
Marissa Davis
Marissa Davis is the author of My Name & Other Languages I Am Learning How to Speak (Jai-Alai Books, 2020).