I wore,

on my right hand,

a glove of cicadas –

glittering,

shimmering,

whirring in patterns

improbable…

A glove of dialogue,

& movement,

& transformation

undeniable…

And when I tried

to release my hand,

my fingers,

of those shrill insects,

they clicked

& chittered

& shifted

& sang;

with buzzing intent,

they bit

& stung;

endured as one;

would not be

shaken off or free,

denied or dislodged,

but rather would

r e m a i n.

— C.Birde, 8/22