DO NOT LET THEM GROW BACK TOGETHER IN THE NIGHT

I woke up to the still white belly of a cicada on my chest
And I know what this means for me and my women
So I revert to the rituals of my mother’s mother:

Kill the copperhead sleeping under the porch
Cut his snake body in two
Separate his fangs from his jaw
String them onto the thin silver chain around my neck

And collect the venom in a flower vase
Bury the diamond head miles away from clay colored body
To keep them from growing back together in the night
Then count how many seconds the coyotes scream for

Take the spoon from under the bed
Coat my body in honey from the town where my mother was born
And do not leave the house
Until counted seconds turn to counted days

The cicada will wake fat on golden honey and singing
We will be safe

YEAR OF LISTENING

To stop imagining the self as a dead thing
Unlovely and prone, do not turn away

From forms dark and crouched
Like your own shadow at noon.

Do not ignore the whispers of the vultures
On the side of the road. Do not be afraid.

Let the sun stretch sky-body until it creates
Great swooping circles above the ground,

Until you swell boldly across the whole sky—
Bright enough to reach out and touch

Everyone you love, everyone who has hurt you,
The body on the ground unrecognizable,

The vultures, the self.

Vivian Workman is a poet from North Carolina. She is pursuing a BS in Psychology and a minor in Creative Writing at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Her poems explore human connections to the natural world and how stories evolve across generations. Outside of writing and coursework, she enjoys hiking in the Appalachian Mountains and cooking big meals to share with her friends.