The Pub

Cicada Sonnet

Jana Papp

Nearer still to limestone than the sky,
the ravenous grey-tinged nymphs, still mute,
writhe in a sodden tangle of hair-thin roots,
till sediments rip– surfacing, brittle wings drying
in the sun, wide-rimmed eyes unblinking. They fly,
fanning south, to feast maws in ripe fruit
and soft-sprung leaves. First militant, they dilute
in harsh murmurs as the gnawing summer dies.
Later, we find hard-cracked amber husks
of bodies tucked into broken fence rails.
The last sycamore leaf clings spider-thin,
its  bone-white tracings rattle in the dusk.
Flecked with eggs, the slowly clotting soil
embraces waxen roots in silence again.

Jana Papp is a senior English writing major from Nicholasville, KY. She keeps a bear skull in her room. At least, she thinks it's a bear skull. Let her know if you can identify it.