cicada suit 

i want to take off my end-of-the-world costume. 
in other words, break out of my flesh
like a cicada on the throat of my parent's old pine tree.
as a child i would go there to harvest
their discarded skeletons. they stood like statues 
frozen on the trunk & branches. 
little memories of hunger. i too have screamed
in the dirt. i too have lived like a nesting doll.
one miniature fury after another.
when i look for my cicada suit i'm looking
for a way to pry apart bone from self.
as if there were a season for sacrifice. 
we keep the calendar in our blood. remember
exactly when the moon pulls us out. 
a drawer of diamonds. this coming year is
a double cicada year. two species will rise
from the dirt & yell themselves to pieces
by the porch lights. i consider crawling inside
one of the vessels. the dormant skeleton.
i imagine maybe it is the one & only portal
back through time. i do not want
to be a child again. i don't think anyone does
but i do think we believe in revision.
this time i would linger longer 
beneath the tree. this time i would learn
the language of the cicadas. this time
i would join them. this time i would not let
my father take out my teeth. this time i would 
keep them safe instead of
giving them to the next boy 
with a forest fire for a mouth. 
when they come i will not be ready as
i am never ready for the swarm. to see myself
as the creature molting. coming apart
with an audience. leaving behind 
an army of still lives clinging to the tree.