Time-lapse film shows a cicada
emerge from the dirt,
heat darkened classroom
smells of natural gas, chalk,
butter painted lunch rolls.
I stare from the back
of the room
near the supply closet at
beings like me.
In thirteen year cycles
we push up from black earth
drunk on Cottonwood sap.
Nail bitten fingers skitter under
and over my unhooked
bra, and get tangled
in my collar
branches,
where new teenagers
seek safety, a place to shed
clunky brown skin.
Under jean skirt and translucent
red veined panties that read
Wednesday,
two boys shove their preying
mantid forelegs, dipping
into mother's milk
of pupal manhood.
Later they will raise cupped
hands to the faces of
the swarm,
prophets spreading good
news, and the smell
of humiliated flesh.
I sit next to my husk
under the tin roof awning
outside the cafeteria
making sounds
like electric shocked rattlesnakes
or just
a shaken gourd full of
baby teeth.
If eyes are windows of the soul, yours are painted shut,
vitreous humors dried out, flaking, and your box,
the grey tufted satin not of your choosing.
You would've surely gone for tweed.
You called me a haunted house,
said you were just a lost Greek boy walking
the halls, trying doorknobs. Said you never knew whether
one would swing an inward welcome,
or outward to bust your nose.
But here you are now, a sand colored cottage, hollowed
jewel of Hydra, looking just like you always do when you sleep
late Sunday mornings.
Wait without breathing while I boost silver pruning shears
from the garden shed behind your folded
hands, and snap open my rib-fence
where you almost got your head stuck.
From under my elastic diaphragm, I'll tear loose my emerald liver
and place it on your doormat before
the wrecking ball arrives.
Remove her organs
replace with dried grass
wrap her body in Black Legged Kittiwake skin,
then sea otter fur.
Secure her, bind her on woven rye matting.
Strap her under the umbrella of your unbound
hair.
Tell her kitchen table stories.
Hum the weekly grocery list.
Sing the minutes, sing the hours of her short stay.
Dance her to the tune of Aurora Borealis.
Scream at anyone,
who crosses your path.
Put your hands behind your back as if waiting
for manacles of fireweed,
and touch her feet.
Wear her for days. Bid farewell to six minutes
of light every twenty-four hours,
until
You hear the echo of her goodbye.
Then walk her to the edge of the black circles
under your eyes, and place her
on Polar waters.
Kelly Clayton is a Louisiana Creole, whose roots reach back to 1778. She recently moved home after twenty years in New York City. Writing poetry full time, she has earned a living as an editor, waitress, line cook, publisher's assistant, and event producer, all after dropping out of beauty school.
Kelly's poetry has been published by Future Cycle Press, Delacorte Press, Gloom Cupboard, and The Dead Mule School of Southern Literacy. Her work will be featured in Mom Candy, due out March 2013, published by Simon and Schuster.
She currently lives in Lafayette, Louisiana, with her husband and youngest of four sons.
del.icio.us
