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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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i am afraid of the cicadas
& the white pipes i tripped on fleeing from their terrible sound, who runs an exposed pipeline across your flowerbeds? who dares trace lines across the planes of your face? i was a fleck in my mother’s eye as she looked upon your two-lips & your irises & when light touched my face you planted baby’s breath, now i exhale as i’m swatting the cicadas i am afraid of the cicadas as they plaster the window, in view of the old calendar on the wall, in view of your pear trees, dead pages of time begging to be shed, dead fruits on the branches begging to be picked by your lost granddaughter, i reach but will the ladder let me pick them? climb up higher & into your arms? your branches & fingertips outstretch & you’re swatting the cicadas i am afraid of your cicadas so thank God you aren’t buried here but I think God, he’s buried here because the earth remembers the warmth of your hand better than I remember the sound of your voice because it’s drowning in the drone of cicadas, if i hug your pear tree will i hear you? i visit gravesites more than i visit the depths of my mind & the depths of your garden but you live in the shadow i cast on the mulch so maybe, for you, i’ll stop swatting your cicadas Comments are closed.
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Unless otherwise noted, all pictures used are open-source images in the public domain. Archives
October 2023
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