when we were five, six, seven, eight,

ally, chloe, and i trudged toward the 

sycamores, pale palms pressed against 

peeling bark, brows furrowed, minds seeking

a satisfying tap or accidental crunch 

 

the leader yelled our skin count. nine!

and the next, ten! another one, eleven! until

they slipped past our slim fingers into 

the dirt. twelve! we reconvened, tromped

up rain-softened steps, hands carefully cupped, 

 

piling cicada skins one by one, or thirteen by

thirteen, some escaping through wooden slats

for the empty sandbox. back pockets snagged at 

screws before flying down my buttery yellow slide,

resuming the search for molted binds.

 

now we are twenty-two, twenty-three,

palms, minds, hearts not as soft,

late spring swingset days shed by time.

but we still count the skins of who we were, 

whom we loved, and lives left behind.