the cicadas

i

when the cicadas
came early
it was not early, the thaw
was already deep

the cicadas
have muscular legs
they will burrow
in the ground
deeper than six feet

the cicadas fly
as if digging their way
through the air
as if
they are always
hoping to hit
something solid

the cicada women
thrust through tree bark to
tuck in their eggs
they work like bankers
all night

the cicadas
come in sufficient numbers
to a place
so that no enemy
has the appetite to eat them all

ii

on the night of the cicadas
i had told you
it is possible
there may be a kind
of permanent
sadness

i went out hurriedly
to mow what i could
of the slickening lawn
in the half-darkness
my mind
became fascinated
with the first line of
"man of constant sorrow"
i sang under my breath
over and over
and the cicadas
pelted my shins
that were wet
and stained bright green
with clippings
when i came back in

i sat down
to tap all this out
for a poem
and my little girl
upstairs
started coughing, crying,
gasping for air, chest
retracting until we could calm her down,
panicked, driving to the ER
changing our minds
because she seemed ok again
sitting up with her and
falling asleep slumped in chairs
with our hands
in each others until they started to get
sweaty and uncomfortable

iii

in the morning
the ground is thick
with cicada skins
they just left
them there
the permanent things

i want to tell my children
try to write
try to pile your words up
for the morning
to shine through
that's all, no other reason
why
and if you find
sometime that you are flying
just let the air
be air