Could it be that I’m a cicada,
that I’m three quarters through the long sleep,
the shedding, the drinking from tree roots?
I am seasonal.
Quiet in the winter,
and I thought I bloomed in summer,
but maybe each year has been growth,
an old shell too small,
as I expand with heat, light,
and the scent of blue eucalyptus haze.
Thirteen years on this one pill
that keeps me from cutting my wrists.
I don’t feel anything,
not for a long time,
until an emotion gets through
The cicada has a seventeen year cycle.
They are ready to emerge this year,
in their millions.
A giant orgy of mating,
singing, and egg laying,
so their children can gestate another seventeen years.
Will they drink, take drugs,
visit a vomitorium,
go to Burning Man?
In four years, will I be new?
Will I finally be fully grown
out of the pill-need?
Will I emerge, blinking,
into sun-strong light,
ready to engage the world
in a orgy of novels, paintings,
Will I finally be ready
to claim the season of my dreams,
or will someone dig into the ground
in which I nest,
and find nothing but a husk?
Will I have died whilst waiting?
From the TypeWriter Tarot newsletter: They’ve been growing underground for 17 years, drinking from tree roots, shedding their skins five times before they climb from their caves to find mates and initiate a new cycle.