cicada wreath 

welcome to my plush madness.
i have a secret mouth for 
the occasional neccesary scream.
once, a lover took me out to the edge 
of his favorite woods & said
"this is where i let myself go."
he shrieked & i tried but couldn't.
it's far too intimate a thing to be heard
by trees & rocks
there is a species for my home.
five legs & the missing sixth.
opening all the windows to teach 
the children how to fly. we used
to holiday all the time. set up
thumbs worth of fire. harths 
to lay down in as logs.
hasn't everyone's father cut down
their favorite tree? haven't we all
wanted to be an iris?
in the linen closet, everyone
can be a ghost. green lights 
for guests. we walk without breathing.
exhausted, i'll often cross my legs
until they turn to tails.
who is keeping track of the seasons?
not me. not ever since the storm.
you think you're done seeing your sons
& then all of a sudden here they are again.
hungry & perched in the sink.
i want to be washed like a potato.
the lover, he was not the kind of man
who you would expect to scream.
this is why his sound haunts me.
how long had he saved it for?
is there one inside me? dormant?
the cicadas, they know what it means
to be patient. either that or 
their bodies betray them.
refuse to break surface. talking
to dirt & saying, "today today today."
no not yet. then, haunted daylight.
cloud blur & yellow. 
standing small & loud in the grass
while windshield wipers
do everything they can.