Melissa Prunty Kemp

It is the night before

I plan to leave. 

Somewhere I heard

that is called penultimate. 

Also an eve. 

This is my Freedom Eve. 

If I wake tomorrow,

what for most is still yesterday,

I will step into night air

not crackle grass or leaf;

I will become silence,

the whirl of circles,

cicada wing trembles,

resting call for a scorcher.

A nameless bug crawls

my rough seam

as if to the heaven

of a succulent sweat

bead. But I will

no longer host parasites.