Seventeen years worth of aerating
and waiting: a million untraceable
sirens. From my porch, it sounds like the howl
of winter gales: a pre-solstice storm
born underground. Everywhere,
now, they lilt and crisp on telephone poles,
on the side of the road. Swarms above my head
pay no attention. Even the birds have stopped
singing in the morning. Cicadas call, flash
orange-veined wings, small scarves
out of the magician’s hat. The tar outside
my house is pockmarked with rot. The dying
look for bark next to the empty shells
of last week’s nymphs. The lucky cling
there, like martyrs in an ancestral graveyard,
in the midst of all the unholy business
of barbeques, the mailman, and the Monarchs.
Next month, after they have all died, I will go
back to listening to the radio, or to silence.
No more trace of raucous breathing. The ground
will swallow them up again in one
slow, hot inhale. A final act
of sorcery. The trees mark this year
with a rich, wide ring. Soil sweetened by this
resource, this rapid pulse of life. Thumb-sized
shaman who come up from tunnels and roots
to remind us again—just when we begin to forget
it’s possible—how to die gracefully, and in chorus.
Gulf Stream Magazine 