Cicadas

(This poem was also published Feb. 2008 - I am not sure why it turned into double-spaced formatting when I copied and pasted it in here. I also don't know how to keep the original line break formatting, blogger makes everything line up on the left hand side...)

Cicadas

We hiked the River Trail early

to beat the heat. And under

those Junipers, Red Maples,

and Quakies you turned suddenly,

a finger to your lips,

one hand fanned out to air.

whatever I was saying

about the bills we cannot pay

the doctor’s appointment we dread

the disease there is no cure for

cut off mid-complaint. So abruptly

for a moment, I thought the motion

was meant for us to give it all up.

But you stayed that way,

fingers unfurled, chin tipped

up and cocked to one side.

Over my own heavy breathing

I could hear the new brood call,

males singing for their mates.

And I kept waiting for you to speak,

declare some sort of answer,

affirm their hymn,

or rest my own worries.

But you only stood stock-still,

face lifted in some irenic

intoxication, and I realized

there was nothing really to say…

but that it was a whir,

a thrumming around us,

a buzz, a drone, a ring

a deep hum that swirled and spun

down and down inside my chest

with each breath I drew as we were swallowed

in the whirlpool of sound rising from the ground,

song, seventeen years kept,

then released all at once

in whirring wings.