If you give him a dollar
he�ll climb a palm tree,
whack a frond to the ground
and meet you back on the
sidewalk where he�ll begin
his folding

These 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,
and that there are people
who know how to fold it

He sang as he wove the body,
organic greens twisting,
ducking, weaving, giving
up the deliciousness of sun
for the night songs that would
become their lullaby.

He left one leg long, attached
still to the frond it was birthed of
preventing it from springing
out of his hand before I paid my dollar.

In the town square I freed it,
snipped the ungainly appendage,
an umbilicus that connected it still to the plant
kingdom it was plucked from
and watched as it practiced being free.



� 2004 by Jalina Mhyana
* First published in Wicked Alice, spring 2004