Cicadas

My bare feet sink deep into the Louisiana grass.
Cicadas’ rhythms pull my eyes from tree to tree -
whirring, pulsing, rising,
stopping -
only for a moment
before beginning again.

Sweat soaks my cotton tank
under my breasts and armpits.
My bra
remains dry
still folded neatly in my suitcase.
There is no need for vain presentation in this South.

Thick, liquid air coats my lungs
and I inhale thoughts, dreams, and
(most of all)
memories of a lush childhood running
through red ant piles, pine needles,
and crackling sticks that scratch my legs.

Lying on the thick Louisiana grass,
I smell clover and dirt.
I see clouds in all shades of gray and white
swirling overhead
matching the beating wings of the cicadas.
In this place that is not, I am home.

Comments

[NOLA Barb]

Mom almost peed herself when she got to the bra part of your poem, she laughed so hard!

[Navelgazing Midwife]

Barb: Glad I could make your mama laugh! She's the best. :)