The Last Cicadas
by Genevieve Betts
The last cicadas thump and buzz
like a souped-up Cadillac.
They really are the most beautiful
plague. I too hum among their
windowpane wings, veined
like lace on whirring blades.
Sugar skulls commence their séance,
flicker pigments in candied ambiance.
The desert’s hot verve vacillates
at the last lurch of summer,
oases wavering in their distant trick
I fall for again and again.