Poem – Could It Be I’m a Cicada?

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

medication bunting.

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,

book tours?

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.

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