Rebecca Randall
Geese at Night
The dog was the first to notice—
perhaps because she is young
and has not gathered knowledge
of these things—and raised
her voice in worry toward
the dark. Then they arrived
overhead: a pair of geese, splitting
the night air with their cleaving
wings, chattering wearily.
They made wide and lopsided
loops, sweeping back into view
just behind their calls. Never mind
that it is just April. Never mind
that it is almost midnight. Never mind
that they are only two,
that there are plenty of places
to land: Middle
Swamp, digesting
wetly a half mile east, or closer still
the drainage pond behind the back fence,
luring deer and wading birds
with its slow water and fat, tank-like
turtles. Never mind the places
to touch down and rest, to float
on the spring-warmed water. The geese
take their portion in the air, rising
and falling in tired circles, their pilgrims'
dialogue growing soft under
the tree frogs' idiot screams.
Cicadas
Seventeen years spent underground,
changing, writhing blindly against
roots and rocks, have built a little
insect. Bullet-headed, bulldog-bodied,
the soft larval form is patiently fragile.
For seventeen years we have walked
and packed the earth down over him.
In late August the pine trees glisten;
every few feet where sunlight touches
an amber jewel will flash. Empty shells
of grown-up cicadas straddle the trunks,
clinging as strongly as if the body
was still pulsing inside.
For five weeks the cicada leaves his skin.
He sings for love and litters the pines,
tiny casts of chitin with small feet
dug in. He is blind in his singing, he is sweet
in his hope. Seventeen years for five weeks
in daylight, and the cicada's desire for the tops
of trees leaves us with such gleeful detritus:
those brittle, bleached, and faithful ghosts.
Ants
They shift in waves, fumble toward
each other, their antennal smell diluted
by rainwater runoff. They get lost sometimes
in weakened cross-signals: roach droppings,
small pieces of sugar cookie. Quick turns
and concerted spasms reveal a sort of scented
blindness, until some strong sign calls them,
high-stepping after each other. They do not,
as we sometimes do, try to cover their tracks—
lest they disappear.
When you left I combed the living room
carpet into weeded rows with the vacuum.
I cannot remember where you have gone
and erased the traces of your travels
around the house. I washed the sheets,
threw out your razor, cleaned your careful
scent from my floors.
The rains have come too heavy for me
to follow along behind you. I wander the halls,
test my feet in each room, but this place
is so clean no reminders can colonize.
Rebecca Randall earned her BA from Berry College in Rome, Georgia, and her MFA from the University of South Carolina. In her spare time she enjoys constructing tiny houses made of toothpicks and chasing her dogs.