Susanna Wood
SMOKE
I dream of Jessie Kelley and I dream
of cicadas. Hundreds. Wriggling
in clumps along the pavement,
basking in the sun’s long, harsh
rays. You couldn’t walk an inch
without crunching an exoskeleton
beneath your feet
that summer.
Like me, they grew up
underground,
emerged stick-legged,
oversized. Like me,
they left bits
of their bodies behind,
cold red eyes bulged
with stupor.
Clumsy insects scattered
in heaps across the schoolyard,
the sidewalks, Jessie’s front porch,
where they attempt flight,
but crash hard into the screen door
instead. A boy I knew
dropped a brick on one
once, but it didn’t die
right away.
Neither did we,
when we ran arms-up screaming
across 6 lanes of traffic,
from McDonald’s to the mall.
Or when she snuck a pack of matches
to her bedroom,
lit paper scraps on fire
just to fill the air with smoke.
Your pits fucking stink, she announced
as she lathered my scalp
in chemical batter,
let it sit too long.
I still can’t stomach
the acrid singe of hair dye
without feeling myself
melting,
and I guess that was the point.
I wanted to be watched,
but I wanted to dissolve
into the walls
and through the floor & ceiling.
Cicadas batted
at the windows, I said
Maybe the boys will notice
a new brunette.