by Dean McHugh
Hatching of the Magicicadas
We have come here for terror.
For the fruit of seventeen years
of nectarous roots, quenching
another new generation.
The babel of Brood x escalates—
“Pharaoh!” ricochets through the plains.
Exoskeletons from the moult
lie discarded as rifle casings;
some still clinging to weeds, others
shuddering in the lunar winds.
Rain hushes the season’s tumult—
the freshening of ancient waters.
Locusts inter each other.
Like clockwork, metamorphosis turns
from imago to disillusion.
A shiver runs down the soil
returning the electric sensation
to some unturning evolution, some history
from which all revolution springs.