I am confined by my rib cage,
My senses, my posture.
I aspire to be the cicada
Who crawls out of his skin
And cries–loudly.
My wetware is wired uniquely;
The cords of my neurons are stretched and pulled.
I wait for the day my hands walk
And my fingers unravel
To reveal the stone resting in the palm of my hand.
I take the stone to the lake
And sidearm it across the water.
As I watch it bounce off the calm surface,
I notice the moonlight distort in the ripples.
Thomas Troso is a high school student at Hackley School in Westchester, New York. He
has been repeatedly published in his school’s literary magazine, The Vision. This,
however, is his first professional publication.