Cicada boys sing!
A billion seventeen-year-olds
all hormones and no bedtime 
mad to mate, Motown songs
promising everything  

Muscles buckle tymbals
below the belly
the tymbals snap back in place
like yogic fire breaths
four hundred times a second  

Each hollow abdomen
a sound box, each enlarged
trachea amplifying woo and troth
loud as lawnmowers
that never run out of gas:  

“Oh Darling, this love will live
five sweet weeks, then sleep,
cradled in darkness, fed by
memory, and be reborn
with wings!”