A cicada, newly risen, navigates my skin,
beneath the soft unhesitating touch
I too stretch my wings.
We have both lain for so long untouched,
now we unfurl knobbly and new,
fresh and unfolding.
Does the soil ache as cicadas are borne up bursting?
Summer is a weight on my thighs,
a soreness in my most hidden bones.
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