The Honey Locust

by Ronnie Sirmans

Boys have their secrets. Mine was a bug.

When I was seven, I discovered a locust 

(now I know they’re called cicadas) that 

could only poke his head out of his shell.

So I fed him drops of honey, and he lived

for weeks, then months, then it was seven

years later, all in privacy in my bedroom. 

His unshed skin had not crumbled to dust.

When the next generation arose, my buddy

struggled, aroused by the chorus outside. 

The years had hardened his amber casing,

and he stayed silent too long. I cried a little,

diluting the leftover honey as I returned him 

to the earth with his husk so uselessly sweet.