by Clarinda Harriss.
2021: the melody’s ending.
I liked having them in my hair.
I’ll be 99 next time they sing to us.
My evil aunt Senora Pat Castillo
prayed to live long enough
to see Castro dead. She missed
by a year. Nor did my mother make 99.
1970, miniskirted, I crunched through
the back yard of the father of the son
I was a little bit pregnant with.
1987, said father was living with me
part time. Brilliant, impossible.
A venomous mayfly courted me.
I married it. I should’ve swatted it.
2021: I miss their three-part harmony.
The cicadas’, that is. They were lovely.
They didn’t want to be in my hair
but my waist-long braids trapped them.
I freed them gently. Ancient Egyptians
worshiped dung beetles–think scarabs.
I should have worn cicadas as hair jewels.
If by genes and chance I happen to be
alive in 2038 I will offer them my yard;