Annunciation

Windows open, I hear cicadas

peal like bells. They won’t die down

in this heat. On my bed, knees bent,

I anchor a mirror between my ankles

and breathe. They say the first time hurts,

that touch changes a girl for good.

My arm is just long enough to reach.

I press myself, nothing breaks. Circling

my fingers like a wand, I wait and wait.

The hum of cicadas comes after they lie

for years underground. A hundred

translucent shells intact, latched

onto my house. They trap light

like paper lanterns, crystallize

in gold. That’s how I first witnessed

the body’s seams, sun caught

in between. They worry open

on their own. This happens all the time.