When the cicadas sleep

When the cicadas sleep

In Zhejiang the cicadas gossip

about little girls that jump on stepping stones

as aunties raise hands of caution

telling them the ground beneath is unkind

When I speak to you the words fall short though my mind pours

My arms reach far out into the horizon for you 

so you can feel the sun without taking step

because each step is a sword into your back 

July, August, and a long pause in between

Sentences are cut shorter and shorter until there are none

They melt into stinky tofu and along dirty sidewalks

falling into sewers four stories below you

In Zhejiang you were once a little girl

that likely ran from lamppost to lamppost

catching fireflies and wishing they burn forever.

Mudpies in community yards, concrete bars for daily activity

At 4 am the cicadas sing their national anthem

signaling that the speed walking competition is on TV

Together we are shoulder to shoulder, fascinated by the concept of running slow

eyes parallel and stories in series, you hold a history in your frail arms

It is my fault for being unable to lift my eyes and force an intersection

Though my blood belongs, I can’t dissipate into the air like the rest of you

hot from moisture, not the sun, heavy from smog, not the latitude

so my hands remain folded and my words in jail for a crime offending generations

So the cicadas jeer that I am able to stand tall when you cannot

because who decides the deservingness of a life 

and who decides the paths we take and what kinds of air cause us to sweat

Who can decide when the intersections occur, and how many are not enough

Stuck in your tower, the sun rises and sets as everything seems stagnant

a falsehood lying to us about how much the channels change

how the bamboo mats gain dust while the pans accumulate oil

Sticky, tired hands cut the very last eggplant, mashing it into pieces

Mornings and earlier mornings, your rhythm shifts 

as the days become more unfamiliar 

But how would I know that to be true

when our eyes don’t meet unless the aunties raise hands

In Zhejiang the siblings stay up all night to cope

say these visits from the Dragon were inevitable 

The moon takes you away and brings you back to Chang E

where our ancestors welcome us home with loving arms

You made me remember more than the sweating

than caterpillars in black waters scaring my small toes

Forcing ourselves to sit along the shore and remember 

because the healthiest rivers are the murkiest

Today the cicadas fell asleep forever

They fear disturbing young girls from studying for unknown futures

stay quiet so the fireflies can be heard rather than seen

They misunderstand, so they think they must

In Zhejiang the roads are filled with sounds of mopeds 

of salesmen promoting their latest inventory

Mornings and earlier mornings pass buy as wrinkled hands

touch the eggplants in the fridge one last time

Sitting on the other side of the shore

I remember the cicadas in Florida 

Today they gossip about little girls that fail to find the intersections

and walk in parallel lines every day because lines look pretty

When the cicadas sleep

we are not comfortable with the silence

We pick at skin to recover the noise

We force the same rhythm in our chest to feel

When the cicadas sleep

we realize no one realized they don’t

We discover no one stopped to talk to them

We find ourselves standing in a pile of dead shells