[John Riley]

Revision


Cicadas

The day I died I kept it a secret said
the man with a face like cast iron,
not shiny steel, told the shoppers
going in and out of the everything store.
He sat beside the sliding glass doors
painted with red letters—ENTER HERE—
EXIT THERE—I thought of telling my brother
I was dead, he said, the rust at his lip corners
flaking as he spoke, his black stare seizing
a rushed customer’s eyes, but I thought
of how he reacted when I said a gathering of cicadas
one spring was demure when their sound lulled
between the flight of joy that is their song—
how he flew back and stared until I left to become
the messenger of fortunes, a man who
can kill doves with dreams and build houses
with stares— and when death came wearing
wings made of clear film that fluttered
my happy ghost free from my body I knew
to come here to tell the people who walk in
and walk out, seeking the new with empty pockets.



Cicadas

The day I died I kept it a secret
the man with a face like cast iron,
not shiny steel told the shoppers
going in and out of the store’s collection
of vanity and aloneness. He sat beside
the sliding glass doors painted with
red letters—ENTER HERE—EXIT THERE—
I thought of telling my brother I was dead, he said,
the rust at his lip corners flaking
as he spoke, his black stare seizing
a rushed customer’s eyes, but I
thought of how he reacted when
I said a gathering of cicadas
that came one spring were demure
when their sound lulled between the flight
of joy that is their song—how he flew
back and stared until I left to become
the messenger of fortunes, a man who
can kill doves with dreams and build houses
with stares— so when death came wearing wings
made of clear film that fluttered
my happy ghost free from my body
I knew I should come here to tell the people who
walk in and walk out with change in their pockets.