April Morning with Cicadasong

And still I’m traipsing through the fields

of wildflowers and grass and foxtails. Beyond

these fields are more fields and then more

and then the cloudless sky. Bees hovering

around coral-colored blooms, I make my way

to the river, crowned in clovers and briars,

hair more nest than hair, knees stained red

with scars. Pluck a peach from the tree rimming

someone’s property and pulse it in my hand,

inhale the scent of its skin. I’m no good

at girlhood—worse yet at being good.

Above, the moon swells in blue skies

and the cicadas keep screaming.

This is a reprint of work originally published in The Berkeley Times.

Despy Boutris is published or forthcoming in American Poetry Review, Copper Nickel, Colorado Review, The Adroit Journal, Prairie Schooner, Palette Poetry, Third Coast, Raleigh Review, Diode, The Indianapolis Review, and elsewhere. Currently, she teaches at the University of Houston and serves as Assistant Poetry Editor for Gulf Coast.

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