Swooning

For as long as the cicada crescendos

I hold my breath. It ratchets higher

sizzling the treetops while my face turns purple

until the song deflates and fizzles,

my lungs in synchrony with an aria

that's abdominal, the self-promotion

and celebration of August's royal sun.

Then we rest and I chuff-chuff to redden

my mammalian blood. It pauses

but soon gears up again to pierce the afternoon

with a machine gun of summer glory.

I inhale, fail to imitate. I adore.