I’ve been crawling out of darkness
for years, one concerto at a time,
prone to unraveling but continuing
to climb. I was told to get tough
quick, but that hardening only made
the darkness deeper, so out of
the cicada shell I squoze, shabby
spirit amorphous yet intact.
I have a hunch of going to hell
but shave anyway, floss
then brush all tottering aside.
No one knows exactly
how cicada sing so loudly.
It doesn’t come from the diaphragm.
I suspect news of darkness helps
inspire the mating song,
that certain sound that says
doubt is essential to truth.
Plodding has its moments.
I’d be lying if I said wailing
wasn’t a good workout, something
you feel the next day in your ribcage.
On empty, you feel lighter, better able
to float like ash above the slapdash
ways of the world. Ashes to ashes
seems so clean, like seeing
a ribcage in the meadow picked white
and shining against the green, flying
buttresses supporting the weight
of everything that use to be.
Brian Builta lives in Arlington, Texas, and works at Texas Wesleyan University in Fort Worth. His work has been published in North of Oxford, Hole in the Head Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, New Ohio Review, and TriQuarterly, among others.
