Formication

They came in pianissimo,
one at a time, wingless brown, crawling
from holes clawed through earth,
attaching themselves, clinging,
to branches, walls,
preparing to molt.
Then shedding their skins,
translucent brown and split
down the back, taking on
wings instead.

Soon their calls
reached a crescendo.
The noise became suffocating:
windows were closed
despite early summer heat
to muffle the cacophony enough
to attempt to sleep.

They mated and multiplied,
covering completely
the brick walls of our home,
sneaking down the chimney.

In the fireplace, one cicada's screech
echoes like twenty's.

Mom dressed me and my sister
in jeans, hooded jackets,
and snow boots.
She wore a similar costume
as she batted the bugs off the house
onto the ground. My job was
to stomp them to death

They had to be crushed.

Eventually they silenced.
Behind they left their shells.
We raked them like leaves
and dumped them into the burning barrel
by the buckets-full.