Picture the emergence of a trillion zinging bodies, up through damp earth after long seasons of fumbling, seventeen years each cycle. Abundance and ambition, their bugle cries the signal of readiness to mate. XIII and XIX (largest of all broods) shed their carapace in the process of growing adult bodies and wings. They’re vulnerable in between states, but doggedly tuned to the frequencies of fate. Before you can say vacation, they’ll mate, lay eggs, then die— A story just as exquisite as any long-drawn out romantic tragedy. Carpe diem, use it or lose it; though really, we lose it all at the end. Frenzy of desire in the face of extinction; whirlwind courtship, then off to the Chapel of Love in Vegas. Red-eyed and glossy- veined, just days later you come across discarded suits, torn bouquets of fishnet stockings, casino tokens. Hafiz said, Even though the drunkenness of love has ruined me, my being’s built upon those ruins for eternity. Icing spackles the slice of cake in the freezer—quaint custom we have for marking anniversaries. By July, the escalated rasp of tymbals in the trees gradually peters out. Soon it’s time to harvest radish, potatoes, and kabocha before wintering. Migrating flocks raise their muted oboes as they disappear from view, and the cycles of labor and love begin anew. Bank fires, shelter the coals. Nesting with yourself means forbearance, the tempering of melismas.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
