July is a month I always seem to end up having a great many feelings about—as well as a month that flies by, and therefore ends entirely too soon—but it is also my least favorite of my almanac series. As is typical, I’ve procrastinated until the last day of said month to even post a poem about it—and because I doubt the piece I’ve buried it deep between photos of bugs…
But the experience I had with a cicada on the very first day of this month was, in fact, a fascinating one—as well as a beautiful exercise in sitting still. I had to resist the urge to touch this little kindred spirit until after it kicked off the exoskeleton—and then I only let it latch onto my hand out of fear for its safety if left to dry its wings on our driveway overnight. I tried to leave kin in the safest place I could find—not to mention the only tree it would latch onto—before bidding it both goodnight and good luck. 🪲
When I finally came back inside, I found the ending of this poem (written a lifetime ago) weirdly pertinent—not to mention befitting my bewildering evening. As much as I do wish I’d reworked this particular piece a bit more before the book went into print, lately I’ve been working to make peace with what is. I’ve also become willing to entertain the possibility that poems are messages written not from our past selves to the future—but maybe more like missives from our future self into the past… Words to be followed like a trail of breadcrumbs leading forward. The meaning of poems would therefore need to be unlocked over time—I wonder how much sense I’m making here? July is a month that ends the way it begins—and I wonder when (if ever) I will meet the black-haired girl…
~ July ~
July, quiet as ants in the sugar.
A black-haired girl will arrange
candelabra for the dead, will
prepare her words for the
great distance, arranging them
like passengers… She hopes
that life is a thing she can slice
open at the round, hopes that
it is fleshy and sweet. The
eager foxes nod to one another.
The cicadas have sung their
skins cleanly open under a sun
as dry and polished as a fossil.