The next time the cicadas come
I’ll be 46, with:
a mortgage or a hovel full of empties;
a woman brave enough to try it
or disproportionate arms;
kids, or more abortions
(more abortions, more abortions);
another list of the right people
I met at the wrong time.
Burrow back down your holes, bugs
and take your pressures with you.
I won’t miss your humming
thrumming, buzzing
through my fumblings.
When the wind and rain
knock your vile remnants
from the tree bark
my pity will be elsewhere:
Seventeen more blinks.
This article appears in August 2013.
