Cicada season

My hair formed a knot
that August, a hardened husk
at the nape of my neck. My mother
had to hack and cut at its center

in the outdoor shower.
As I cried, I wondered, how
did it form? Each day, another strand
must’ve wound around itself. I never know

what creature I'm feeding
until its maw is already agape.
Something like sensing
the coming rain in your bones.

I lack that gene. I am shocked every time
the world brings me to my knees.