Midlothian
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.