Wednesday, September 8, 2010



There's nothing like the sound

of fourteen fourth grade boys

who've yet to discover deodorant,

to coat their armpits in Phoenix Ax,

or dream of fingering

the hot sunflower breasts

of blue-eyed girls in plaid

purple bras, eager to let the straps

show. Midlothian soccer field,

summer place, you: under an abacus

of gilded clouds—still green grass

where boys weave each other

in blue mesh shorts, highways

of red Kool-Aid sighing down

their chins—and I am still

a silent cheerleader—peeling threads

of milkweed from the wet

uneven ground, one who hides shells

of cicadas in cheap insect caskets

of interlocking twig. This is where

a person goes to become the torso

of an instrument: cello deep

mahogany, a guitar=s paved

stomach, and my brother:

his rib cage a marimba, almost

ready for the mallets, and my own

legs: a pair of tubular bells

lasting and lasting in the wind.


Sarah Crossland

Sarah Crossland studies creative writing and folklore at the University of Virginia, where she is Editor-in-Chief of the school's DIY/handmade literary-arts magazine, Glass, Garden.