garden by Marissa Corsi (17, Illinois)

          i am afraid of the cicadas
sentinels hidden in the fruits of your
labor & your bushy eyebrows, raised haphazardly at their
shells hidden in the war-torn grass shoots scratching at my
ankles, i am reminded of the drought man-made when you
left, i am reminded turn your waterworks off. there’s
a kink in the hose but my hands are too busy
          ​swatting the cicadas

          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