Rising out of dirt
after seventeen-year’s rest,
the males’ want: to pock
the night like Braille.

They grasp the bark
in wait. I have been married
seventeen years. Have called
for an incubus before, imagined
the thrill, the trill, its fill
and drain, my lull.

The females still
in context.

Can I read tea leaves?
I feel my way
here from underneath.
Your face grainy in motion.
What if we had only six months to remain

above ground? Before leaving a fragile
lantern husk clinging colorless to a tree
our offspring kept
in the dark until their turn.