..and the living is...

where are my cicadas,
my ever-loving you mothers and their white-clothes babes,
where are their fathers sweating under a willow
eyeing a bobber, daughters, cousins,
sons, all short pants and hats running in a dusty yard?
where are my sunglasses--flat black and
fat--lemonade sparkling in the pitcher next to swim-
suits like the one you used to own,
chocolate icecream dripping from a cone onto
a cocoabutter arm, laughing with flashing tongue,
bicycling back to grandfather's porch?
where are my moths, my cycadas, my summer
beetles crawling on the painted planks in the after-
dinner shadows we used to hide from our parents calling
your parents calling,
brothers and sisters lying sweaty between the fan
the window opposite breezing curtains (shutters
humming) with the night folding sweat into your dreams,
bright like sun and moon twinned on opposite
horizons, stars thrumming--in winter they
twinkled, sparkled--and sleep slowly rushing in with
the warm puffs of solstice air, cycadas, singing?