Hothouse

	for K and the cicadas we had to shout over

A summer curse to be endured 			                (BEAR)
They sound (to her) like oil drills 			                (BORE)
Their calls cut deep, through wax and stone 	                (GROAN)
Then into oil (and ear) drums spill 			        (ROAR)

Buzzing on a Xiangshan boulder, 
We’d snuck off to dream up 
Answers to the question: 
“Can an echo sound thirsty to you?” 

She suggests that life is corrosive: 
Like our sweat sucking silt at each instant, 
Etching a grave one pore at a time; 
We keep our distance in the downpour, 
Though we know no one’s dry. 

I say it’s maybe more like
The cicadas are eating our boulder. 
“What a comedown! 
Can’t they see we’re together? 
Talking about poetry together?
Don’t they know that Black Stone on a White Stone 
Was about just the two stones?”

But our friends catch up to us
And the chorus continues. 
I guess the poem rhymes in Spanish, too. 

We agree, though, that life’s 
More than sex on a deadline: 
“Like how the sun we spent our Sunday on
Doesn’t fall”, she says, “it sets.” 
And I nod, then ask for a sip 
Of her water. 

I’ve since rubbed my wings
Together in a cavern 
Then flown out ashamed.

When it rains now that we’re not together, 
I hang my head 
Back, mouth agape, 
And get carved right up. 
That’s how I’ll know it’ll be thoughtful and subtle
That’s how I’ll know it’ll be Thursday for certain 
And when it rains a day late 
The cicadas will sing: 
“After me, the aguacero.”