Cicadas

  I have just today become

  at peace beneath the twilight sky.

  The moon hung like silence

  as I dragged garbage

  down the hill and I thought

  it would rain. All day it should

  have rained in the grey cloud-light.

  I refused to leave the house

  while you mowed the lawn

  until I realized

  the week’s junk would

  have to go despite the weather.

  I went out and crouched

  in the driveway. I counted

  stones and locusts.

  I looked for leaves

  and the occasional

  squashed bug.

  I thought of you,

  how it’s been seventeen years

  since we slept on a narrow bed.

  When the cicadas hatched

  I spent hours avoiding

  the sidewalk,

  but this year I examined

  their red eyes,

  their transparent wings

  etched with veins and purpose

  until they laid their eggs

  and died. Now the moon

  hangs like wisdom

  above our garbage at the curb.

  And I’ve counted all the leaves

  while you nap inside,

  unaware of the importance

  of bugs, how much depends

  on seventeen years of silence.