Year thirteen. An orchestra of Pharoahs
means nothing to me,
I am woman-child anomaly, striding
past umbrella carriers.
Aboveground, boys dream
of plums. Wax blooms split
down the groove of yellow stone fruits
(My legs
spreading like melting butter
over the toast of morning waking).
Year seventeen. The vaultkeeper,
the image-maker, the water-teemer
and soil-sower bandage all palms
with fig leaf.
Soil can only clap soft. I miss my call.
Hushing us is natural. Without it,
Lady cicada only eats French bread,
she dips baguettes in colors for
some weeks.
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