Summer 2000 • Vol. XXII No. 3/4 Poetry |

Cicadas

The night for once is utterly silent: cicadas have quit their trilling too soon leaving only the brittle surfaces of shell clinging to the bark of snow-bound oaks that line the dirt road, tall as, well, tall as they are. You were going to say sentinels, but they are only trees; there is nothing out there conscious in the way that you are of trees, dead cats, stilled cicadas or this capsized moon spilling its bundle of light into the river. Where does the soul go? Archie asks. To whom does it return when the shell is gone, faith gone, and time rots along like road kill you passed on the dark side of the road? Last night, you turned a corner, making your way across a one-lane bridge. A shocked instant of cat, perhaps raccoon, eyes bright as small bells of light. A skeleton is only the structure of the creature that has died— so Emma reminds you—line after line inscribed like bones that pile incoherent, silent under landfill. Then what remains of

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O’Dowd’s Fields

By K.E. Allen

The night for once is utterly silent: cicadas have quit their trilling too soon leaving only the brittle surfaces of shell clinging to the bark of snow-bound oaks that line […]

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By Nuar Alsadir

The night for once is utterly silent: cicadas have quit their trilling too soon leaving only the brittle surfaces of shell clinging to the bark of snow-bound oaks that line […]

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