cicadas

by Morris McLennan

The cicadas bloom and I know it’s going to get colder soon.
They whisper in engine hums beside my window,
under my bed,
inside of my left ear. 

I can see the first tinted leaf.
Once they scatter, they’ll make the hills seem
like piles of rotting lunchmeat
if you drive past them too quickly. 

That’s what I thought of on the school bus one day.
Cicadas, hiding, never found.
Shells, pressed into my palm. 

Going home and being a child and getting unwrapped,
layers of coats and scarves and hats and gloves and boots and socks.

All ochre toned. All sepia. 

Then being old again and looking out a different window and feeling different and being different.
And the sights are the same but the colors have more red in them.
Or maybe they don’t.

Maybe it’s just me. 

Alone in my room. Listening to the engine sounds.
With translucent shells stuck on every desk, every shelf, every surface.
Glowing golden in the evening light. 

I, too, know how to glow golden. 

Morris McLennan is a writer from Chicago, Illinois. His plays have been workshopped with the support of DePaul University and Shattered Globe Theater. He has a BFA in Playwriting from DePaul University, where he was the recipient of the Zach Helm Endowed Playwriting Scholarship and the Bundschu Award. Currently, he interns for Fruit Bat Press while working on his upcoming play, debut novel, and his Chicago restaurant review zine series.