Cicadas

Holes pock the ground;
husks cling to stucco,
spine the lilac trunk;
in a whirr of cellophane
small zeppelins veer up
towards the tops of trees.
Sometimes their song
is a razor strop rasp
back and forth over the mind,
at others, patience
in tension with longing.
In mid-spring, their
climbing voices
promise heat, sex, death—
an iridescent throb
like a benign nerve;
an image beyond reach
provoking memory.
Befriending me, one covers
cheek, nose, ear
with ticklish tracks,
invades my hair.
Three amber gems stud
the velvet between its eyes,
so mildly red. Close up,
I see the light they hold,
those two black pinpoints,
then lift the cicada
back to earth and slip indoors—
enveloped still by that
high-pitched chant once
nurtured at the roots.