Cicadas weep their rhythmic longings
for meteor-showered mornings in June.
I weep with you, sewn breast to palm,
to tired nymphs, their tender glances,
rose-cheeked with Hera.
You are all beginnings, sweet iuvenis.
Nectar-tongued, framed by the feminine
gentle misunderstood mother, Aphrodite.
Painted indigo crushed on the roof of your throat.
Circle of pine and fire smoke.
I hold you so, from you, I rose once again.
Your waxing moon bitter ash of victory.
Entomb me in sacrilegious death.
So estranged from femininity.
He caressed me as divine Eros and I.
A covenant in wishbones,
new mornings and blessed June.