Alyssa Belknap
Tomorrow we will sit in first period,
legs draped over desks and metal bars.
We will roll our eyes and exchange glances,
wonder what the World will take from us
today. But all that is for tomorrow.
Now I bask in the foreground. Listen
to cicadas whisper secrets,
toss their shells aside, like old cotton
training bras. Only to emerge soft bellied,
pale. Poor Things. Not yet hardened- protected.
I barely feel the incessant itch
of cool tall grass, down dandelions,
who strains her stem all spring toward the sun.
Waiting, for the wind–
or a girl to aid her escape.
Here in the orchard, we find middle ground.
Between dirt and lurking sky, the Apple
tree. Her tender petals preparing fruit.
Tangled in her branches, we perch, lawless.
There are no mirrors in this palace.
Our limbs clutch her colossal body,
bend, crack, against her wrinkling bark.
We hang our heads and play The Game.
Let the blood rush, freckled knees to head.
Test how long we can take the heat or—
play it cool.
Beneath, we take part in our feline ritual.
Groom renegade hairs; tend scratched abdomens,
compare the ways in which our bodies
stretch and betray us. Swear our cycles
synched through shared scabs picked.
Somewhere, not far away from here
Fathers’ veins swell like teen girl tears.
Brothers bluster through medicine cabinets.
Boys learn to hunt white-knuckled.
But all that is for tomorrow.