17 years, the cycle of cicadas reborn, opening from membranes in the dirt, a smell rising, silence crushed and surmounted, a hum is new. The power lines move out in unison, some poles tipping, toward a horizon, graying at the edges like smoked gums and fission plants. Bare feet on a long, metal staircase, almost quiet, the skin impressed by the diamond-cut landing, the scent rises up, the first few cicada viscera litter the walkways. A landscape of empty gyms, humidity, bleach smell, janitors clean the shower rooms, rust gathers at the drains, 2 TVs left awake, 5 put to sleep, an elliptical machine is a towel rack, 4 treadmills watch the sun rise with one another, a sweatshirt is reapplied, the glass doors open, drag to a close, the central air conditioning blows the napkins from the common area table, a hum settles on the carpet entrance. The Bastakiya alleys have tiles that once held narrative. Now the ground is black. The ground has always been black. Death is a staircase. The cicadas are buried in the dirt another 17 years. A Bedouin closes the refrigerator door in a gas station, half-lit before closing, Coca-Cola permitted during Ramadan because they have traveled so far from home. The membrane regrows, burrowed below the hydrangea bush, Bastakiya rests in peace, the Bedouin lives on forever.

-David Coccagna, June 2019



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