Underneath the trees, cicadas sang

about something like love. We plucked
their exoskeletons
and wore them like barrettes:
women-of-the-wilds together,
running through tall grass and checking
each other’s behind-the-knee
for ticks. And later that night,
after our mothers combed our thick hair
for whatever-the-reason, louse-free,
we’d sleep deep like only kids can,
ready for the inevitable tomorrow,
lost in the everglow of summer.