The Crickets Remember

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These days, any little thing
distracts me: a moth clicking
its body on the tin roof
in Morse code, a drop
of cranberry juice, the translucent
tote bag you placed over
the white halogen light burning
on my balcony. I forget what
pulled me outside to begin with—
the lack of walls, perhaps
or the faded voice of dogs.
Whatever it was, I’m worried
about the atmosphere again.
Once I wrote an encyclopedia
on the wind songs of the dead.
Tomorrow I’ll suck the juice
from an orange, and a girl will place
a peanut shell into my palm, proclaiming
everything vanishes into clouds
to return via the faucet in the bathroom
sink. Leaving Earth will be difficult
I think, but someone’s mother
will make a lovely photo album
about it. My fortune cookie
never tells me I’m going to die
though it wouldn’t be wrong.
In the desert, a motorcycle races
beneath a sky of starfish and bears.
The crickets remember September.
In the dew-dropped grass,
a girl climbs into the basket
of a hot-air balloon like she is diving
into a glass of lemonade.
These days, little makes sense
except the apples in my kitchen
and the saddest trees are Southerners.
Even if we don’t survive the end
of the world, I hope the universe
reminds you of the night we drove
to the prison, my hands raised
through the moon roof, wind lacing
around my fingers. The songs
I don’t know are my favorite.
My favorite language is the one
you speak in my ear
though I don’t understand.

 

Photo By Mark Robinson

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About Author

Maggie Graber is an M.F.A. candidate at Southern Illinois University in Carbondale. Her chapbook, Beads, was a finalist in the 2012 Button Poetry Exploding Pinecone Chapbook Contest, and her work has been featured or is forthcoming in Toad, Utter, Avatar Review, and Gingerbread House among others. She loves Lake Michigan.

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