Ginger Post

I. Cicada sister still lies still,
Her cheeks the rhythmic sound required,
For me to sleep while she sucks against her cheeks
with tiny whispers and clicks.
I feel safer under these sheets trying,
To find some rest then I did when she wasn’t sleeping above me.

She holds her blankets to breathe,
The scents her soothing, gentle softness,
That bring her to places timeless.
Carefully I peek above my area
looking up to the place she prays.

Every night before her final haul,
She tells me to pray her prayers
the way she wants with me.
I feel included and introspective,
When she tells me she’s missing,
Her old home in an orphanage in China far away from all.

II. The quiet sound of siblings sleeping and the sibilant whispers of the breeze through the shutters.
A smell of jasmine and a ripple of rose wafting from above my mother’s garden.
Tonight is calm and cool and bright, while the waiting wooden lantern sways lightly.
Last night an ex-friend came back to talk to me from nowhere.
Didn’t stay for long, saw his mistake for what it wasn’t and left again.
Fully prepared to be dust.
I go back.
Calmer than I should be, calmer than I have been in years.
Back in the solitude and quiet of the place.
Where I am dust.
In the dark.