Crystal Taylor
LI3
Metal seeps through my skin these days,
even under winter-water—alkaline like mine.
The elements don’t bother me anymore,
like when they used to shock me.
I sleep outside sometimes,
admire the cicadas’ chant, their instincts free
to crisscross wings, scrape legs together,
churn heat in leaves, drum tymbals.
The beat reverberates in brittle frames,
and bounces in their hollows.
I lumber in my skin, crawl through
my eyes, a doubled hazel.
Lately, I find gold threads, glinting
tinsel in the carpet. I braid them together,
stow them in my pockets with the metal.