My bare feet sink deep into the Louisiana grass.
Cicadas’ rhythms pull my eyes from tree to tree -
whirring, pulsing, rising,
only for a moment
before beginning again.
Sweat soaks my cotton tank
under my breasts and armpits.
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
matching the beating wings of the cicadas.
In this place that is not, I am home.