for some of us,
freedom was a legend;
a cage of smudged windows
and insatiable longing,
a crippled twirl, 
around the apartment
with a wand in hand,
repetitive crescendo in head
or the sudden broken glass

on the porch,
knot of fervent caterpillars
sliding through my guts and
prematurely spilling out onto the floor,
dissolving into pools of blood
like little girls ripped in pieces
in the midst of a tornado’s whirl
when they should have hid in the cellar,
waited patiently,
incubated like their wild brothers
anchoring in the moisture of a soft,
hemorrhaging sarcophagus
before they soar;
destroy their cotton packages
and hatch into thin air.
when the day is finally warm
and facing them, they
tear through the tether
unbridled in
exodus, unimpeded
and ready to
 transform into grand ideas
and take off without interruption
like the little girl’s

now grown,
an envoy of acrimony
and the blue-black tones of
home and I pause here to ask myself
before I commit to the
flight,: what does metamorphosis
really feel like?  
ask for knowledge,
wait for the visceral reply:

 my skin
tearing at the thread of
each inside, each wound
 stretching wide
for me to see,    wide
like an orbit
enough to case the sky

and black inside turned
outside; now
black each wing of
bone and vine,
black my eyes and
black the sea I shoot
from; everything I touch is black
like me,
and I can see for miles.

“transition (pt.2”


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