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J.P. Dancing Bear-I

Gacela of Cicada


The soul is satisfied to stay in its dark house

of dirt, roots and sleep-twitches for promised

wings, promised air, the belief in sunlight.


What does the soul know of winter snow?

It is a low noise, a soft thrum from the overworld,

an interruption from worshipping the Oak.


When the red gem eyes have emerged,

who treasures the cicada shell?  Its musk

and its reek of a previous, cloistered life?


Old Satan, conveyer of pesticides, protecting

your apple trees while Eve makes a life out of mud—

how will you tempt without the rhythmic music?


The old oaks are frenetic with the noise of love,

the bustle of bodies rubbing under a ruby moon.

This is how the belief in a bipolar God is born.


The rich black soil is full of the music

—enough for the seventeen silent years—

the cicadas have taken from the trees.