Emergence

EMERGENCE

Seventeen plus thirteen equals

eight thousand aliens crackling

in the breeze of an oak tree 

like deep-fried air, even more

piling up below in a thick, leggy 

mulch. Supposedly, in their long

subterranean anticipation, 

cicadas taste time in the fluid 

of tree roots they sip on, 

though scientists refuse

to confirm whether that’s screaming

we hear as they’re wrenched

into the world like a bad tooth

or harmony as they lilt their way to

light. What we can confirm  

is that based on the taste 

of the root we’re drawing from, 

we too are getting close 

to the surface. Soon exoskeletons 

will crunch beneath our feet like the hollow

shells of selves we nibbled on

to quell our evening ache. Soon 

this red-eyed desire to rip a hole 

in our backs and climb out of our skin

will be something more 

than an aphid dream you can't seem

to shake, and with a roar  

we’ll vanish into the eternal note,

disappearing like a single voice in a swell

gathering to break on some unseen tree.