Ribs
Of the Dog-Wood Cicada
Heave for their mate. The call
Is heard, from his hollow body
Emanating canyons
Petty torments – is all
Nothing ominous about a crowd of barren branches,
A canopy of fallen Spring
a lone forest
Hiss,
Dense foggy woods – Slippery as a whisper,
Until soft breath reaches from a place beyond sight
Until eyes are felt like fingers reaching for loose strands of hair
Until a rustle of feet becomes louder than cicada hymns –
Heart palpitations, a beat of four tones
one for the chest cavity,
one to echo eardrums,
one for a throbbing vein in an exposed throat,
one which does not belong.

Petty torments,
Get out.
Get anywhere.

In honor of one of my favorite times of year, Halloween, I’m sharing a poem everyday in October inspired by Classic(ish) Halloween films. 5/31