Periodical

Sparrow Womack

The year it rained cicadas so hard that the porch crunched with each step, They screamed each night 

As if to warn us that we are fragile. 

The fireflies wink at me because they know better than anyone How it feels to be trapped and told you are living– 

Not all of us can shed our old skins and find a better life. 

The fish are dying this year, too, and the government’s paying kids With nets to pull them out of the water. 

I guess you don’t want too many bodies in the reservoir. 

I float on my back and pretend I am a fish. 

I can’t hear anything except my own euphoria and 

The muffled voice of the wind telling me who I am. 

The silt sticks to me as I swim to shore; 

Everything looks so dim after the sun kisses it.