the summer of the cicadas

it was the summer of the cicadas, which meant bodies

everywhere – molted to the barn doors, petals,

windowpanes, spat and stuck like outgrown bubblegum

to the sidewalk. each cloud was an avalanche of antennae,

thoraxes against thoraxes. each song on the radio:

the whirring of wings.

                                        i drank a beer downtown

and plucked little legs from its foam. stuck in my teeth.

a bitch, aren’t they? said a girl three stools down,

and i said i guess so, ‘cause they were, and i don’t disagree

with pretty girls in sundresses. she bought me another.

outside,

                abdomens eclipsed the windows. shuttered the sun.

when we walked to her car they crunched beneath us

like carpet-pretzels, like split spilt chips. her bed smelled

of sap and summer sweat and lavender. 

                                                                         thank god i found

you, i said, and sundress wilted to floor. her skin unzipped

and her face peeled off like a hood. she kissed like they do

in movies, blossoming bugs through my throat.

                                                                                     these days,

i cough black bile and crave twigs, twin wings sprouting

from my shoulder blades. each night i sit in the garden

and listen to them sing, and i wake in the dirt to that

strange, cicada sun.