by Kiyoko Reidy SC Jang I dream my mother a cicada: her flesh gone hard, wings pulling from her back, veins spreading translucent rainbow across thin membrane like oil over water. She rises, a false locust, thick-bodied and screaming, red eyes blank. Her scream, or song, a series of ribs buckling: the tymbal, crashing in on itself and refilling, the empty chamber of her new body echoing like drums in a cave. The crash and refill so fast the clicking rises to a steady hum, lou