Saturday, July 6, 2019

Getting a buzz from raising the dead (cicada)

In the weeks and days before monsoon,
 rain is not a promise.
 It is a hope, 
and a tease.
 I  see it walking across the sky as I walk across the desert.

The cicada was perfect and perfectly still, so I picked it up, placed it on my palm. 

I admired the beautiful wings
contemplated a noisy courtship
the nuances of gratification
so much to accomplish as life shortens
and, forming a cage with my fingers,
carried the insect home.
Just as I entered the house, my hand
zzzzt                               zzzzt                                 zzzt                                     zzzt                     zzzzt

 I grabbed the camera with my other hand and headed to my outdoor worktable.
Cicada and I looked at each other for a moment
and then the little being I had mistaken for dead 
stood on its head 
spinning in moves 
that would impress a break dancer.

a final performance
a memorable dance of death

I'm still hoping for rain
and a noisy courtship.

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