Cicada

By Fred Marchant

That whine is the sound

of waste, rot, the frantic,

grinding inability to attend

to anything but sere thwarting

of yourself, a dry corrosion

which some say they know,

but you and I—

(my jaw clenched as you

turn a page,

you with a heart like drywall,

I who would

lace my arms with razors,

then press them

slowly to your lips,

the metal taste

mixing with flesh,

and through gritted teeth

I making the sound

of you, you, you

do not know, meaning

only me, me)

we know best.

Copyright Credit: Fred Marchant, “Cicada” from The Looking House. Copyright © 2009 by Fred Marchant. Reprinted by permission of Graywolf Press, www.graywolfpress.org

Source: The Looking House (Graywolf Press, 2009)