Three Locusts

Weathered planks beneath bare feet, waterside.Trees’ faces silhouettedagainst 11:39-shaded purple-black. Chestbare to the night, stand alone song:Watch, spirits, prophets - watch.

They are nature’s impartialgrandfathers; threefoldsentinels, watching generationspass their parade beneath a thousand blossom-white eyes.Whisper, spirits, watchers - whisper.

In the air, chlorine moon,I feel the sun’s burn slide off of my shoulderbeneath fingertips; mine? Yes,whispers truth. Know ,whisper the prophets.

I choose the locust truth,swallowing real. I chooseto fall asleep in my room with no wallsand awaken in the dead-sun morninghealed.Know ,whisper the watchers: know better .

I know my fatherwill reprimand me if I am found out herein the drowning night -these spaces are no longer his, any morethan the reflection of a son in the poolof his eyes is mine.

I know my armsare light with goosebumps; and feathersare heavier when wet, but the water is as deep as the sky,and a burgeoning something –a wing? a scream? –aches to burst from every pore.

I know the windhas the vigor of a river and sorrowenough to make the treetops speak –syllable by syllable, leaves ripple a liquideardrum that hears only muffled distance. Palms like bark,I make waves and envy it.Know , whisper the prophets:know better .My hands are better suited for hammersthan hearts – see them? My feet have grown roots,so I close one eye and reachoutward – am I touching now?

Know , whisper the watchers:know better .Is flying, then, the same as being sad –in the sense that I am allowed to do neither?There are feathers in the water, but they are not mine –nothing waits in my skin, I think, but thorns.

Know , whisper the prophets:know better.They have watched my father,too – proud, like his mother's mother. Like her,he will pretend not to noticethings drowning.

My god is three half-dead treeson my great-grandmother's former half-acre.My hands are floating in a backyard pool. I smell chlorineas they trace red, and whitetank-top lines to nestle under nervous armpits.I shiver, and feel foolish.

W hisper, spirits, watchers – whisper.In my room without walls, maybe I will hear youmuffled through the heavy glass windowwith the rusted latchabove the brown paper of Johns Manville-brand fiberglass insulation.

W atch, spirits, prophets – watch.See the boy who wrote poems in the darkby the pool succumbto Seroquel sleep, your voicessubsumed. To him,it likely resembles being underwater.