The Butterfly

The caterpillar grows into the monarch

Lays unabashedly atop my marigolds

Roots clenched ferociously in watered soil

He soars,

I sit still,

He in the sun,

Suckling sweets from every flower.

And I, planted in a chair

Spine wilted.

Why can’t I do as the caterpillar does

Leave this world for a bit

I’ll wrap myself in string,

Cocoon a room large enough for my things

And I’ll transform

Alone.

This tingling under my ribcage will vanish,

My nails will grow back clean, cut and iridescent,

The bruising on the sides of my feet will fade

As will the deep cuts in my face,

Replaced with the vibrant

Reds, browns, and greens of my new skin.

No one will remember the caterpillar.

Only the butterfly, whose fragile beauty

Lasts a mere four weeks,

But what a good four weeks it would be.