The Last Thirteenth Year
Our newspaper claims they say “Pharaoh, Pharaoh”
a mating call of the plagues of Egypt coming in sevens or tens
locusts brought on the wind, cover the eye of the land
eating every tree until the Pharaoh admits his sins.
But these come every thirteen years,
teens walking hand-in-hand
under power lines along an abandoned track.
Listening to cicadas, their twirling wings like vibrating atoms,
I feel more like a pharaoh than a lover,
letting go of the last thirteenth year
when you walked with me under singing oaks
holding a dog’s leash instead of a hand.
