THE DEAD CICADA, THE GHOST, AND THE PASSING OF TIME
I lifted you from your last green leaf,
tiny shriveled eyes
color, lightening to spring green.
legs, crumpled inward, fetal.
thorax, plump and sectioned.
hot days shorten.
time shrunk your
thorax appears as if in mid exhale:
wings, still translucent, green-web veins
many long weeks you set
burial planned, body aging,
those decaying leaves—
as the colors turned in branches
something burned the air—
your remains, traceless
windowsill, stark blank, and restless.
I see the silhouette of your
on the sill now
leaves take turns landing,
but not the green leaves like those you fell
frost rests like silt in the morning.
the katydids, crickets, and cicadas have abandoned
it’s your ghost the echoes of memory constantly migrating
and it is there I will be chasing the ghost a long way