You blew
a cicada
into my wanting mouth
so that he might sing sweet to me
and dance.
He makes
his own music,
jiving tiny timbals
in a pulsing crazed crescendo
of buzz.
His wings
tango my cheeks,
his pin-legs tap my tongue,
he rumbas round my throat to make
me smile.
You start
to split in two,
scared but willing to change;
I've already given you all
my skin.
And now
seventeen years
of wait ends in this gift:
you shed your exoskeleton
for me.