THE MAN WHO FOLDS CRICKETS
If you give him a dollar
he’ll climb a palm tree,
whack a frond to the ground
& meet you back on the
sidewalk where he’ll begin
his foldingThe fronds are actually
cricket skin – I never knew
until that trip to Puerto Rico
that all skin must grow
on trees like any other fruit
& that there are people
who know how to fold itHe sang as he wove the body,
organic green fronds twisting,
ducking, weaving, giving
up the deliciousness of sun
for the night songs that would
become their lullabyHe left one leg long, attached
still to the frond it was birthed of
lest it should hop away
before I paid my dollarIn the town square I freed it,
snipped the ungainly appendage
like an umbilicus
that connected it still to the plant
kingdom it was plucked from
& watched as it practiced
being freej a l i n a m y h a n a
n o r t h e r n j a p a n / g e r m a n yJalina Mhyana's poem was inspired by a street artist she befriended while staying in Puerto Rico, a man who folded insects from palm fronds on the sidewalk for a dollar a specimen. This poem was also borne of those palm fronds, of his hands, of Puerto Rico.
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