Every seven years cicadas emerge
From nowhere, like a nightmare of the boorish dead,
Like tiny tombs that fly, sarcophagi
Perched on three pairs of legs a piece. Droning
And drifting, a crowd of creepy cousins
Loitering at your ever turn. Straight men
Without a joke, the dry ubiquity
Of those unblinking alien eyes
Quickly becomes rude.
We sigh and simmer inside as they fly
Stupidly into our windows.
You beat and bat and crush a few
And they still crowd around,
Like carolers on Christmas eve. As if
To remind us that though we may forget,
They will eventually crawl
From the back of fears to the corporeal. That they
Are real. It’s grace, I suppose, that they are not.