Fruiting Body — Abby Buchanan

It is the monththe thirteen-year and seventeen-year cycles synchronize.Cicada broods XIII and XIXco-emergefrom the groundfor the first time in221 years.Seven statesacross the Midwest and Southeastwill reverberate with cicada songuntil mid-June,when the mothers lay their eggsin the endsof tree branches.The newly minted nymphs hatch,free-fall to the roots,feast on sap,then followtheir ancestral pathdowndeepintothe earth:to burrow,incubate,wait.It is the monthI sit in the back of a caband wonderif I can write a poemafter thirty years.Rafah is on fire.I rage,make calls,watch the videos to the enduntil my cheeks burn,knowing it is boththe mostand the leastI can do.She gets her first loose tooth.He gets his first pimple.It is the monthI see my motherlook genuinely happyin a photofor the first time.When the largest solar stormsince 2003erupts above us,we wake the kids at midnight,run down to the riverbank,pajamas and bare feet,to gawk at the aurora.They are hard to seewith the naked eye,but strangely brilliantthrough my iPhone’s lens:pink, green, gold.We sit on a bench in front of Sue,the world’s largest,most completeT-rex fossil.We hold up photosof chicken skeletons,then human skeletons,comparing them to Sue’s.None are wildly differentfrom the other.We wonder if apex predatorsget a bad rap.In a quiet cornerof the museum’s basementwe see a mummywith our own eyes.She is smaller than I anticipated,not much bigger than a large child.I fall in lovewith the wide gold wingsgilding her chest.I wonderhow her afterlife is going.And whether it is disgust or fascinationrippling through my bellywhen I see herpartially exposedmaxilla.It is notthe month we finish constructionon our house.But it is the monthmy brother,intrepid archaeologist,hauls away2,500 poundsof trash and debris,unearthing, presenting:the yard.The yard where my motherplants flowers.Where we gather on Mother’s Daywith old and new loves.My Dear Onehears a story stirdeep underground,a story buried with our friendafter the car accident in 2000.She sings itback to the surfacewith the cicadas,sings it with her whole chestto the cameras.Then sings himback to sleepso he can finally rest.It is the monthI sit in the clinicevery week,IV in my left arm,as iron is pumped backinto my watery blood.It is the monthI exhumeimprintsof bothabuser and abusedembedded in my body.Goldin my veinswhen the light hits just right.It is the monthI remember I love sex.The month I bleed with the full moon.He and Isee a prick of lightpierce our familiar dark.Maybe we have beenin a swelling cocoonall along,not a tombas we feared.May is the monthmy nine-year-old,blood of my blood,takes my handunpromptedas we walk through the park.The monthmy five-year-old,bone of my bone,falls asleep on my chest,her head heavyon my sternum,feet reachingall the wayto the centerof my tibias.(How?)It is the monthI realizehuman ashes,viewed under a microscope,resemblenebulaeseen through a telescope.The monththe nymph surrenders.The mother emerges.The monthI finally wadeoutintothe river,offering my exhausted attemptsat controlto her swift current.At least for today.