I can see that every breath you take requires your entire body’s effort
so precariously porous, and precipitous, so amphibious
I’m watching you, like a hawk, like I have a camera
the air is rushing through our ears as if the ocean was upon us and
together we laugh helplessly in our embrace and you say:
through moist tears, as you scan your surface,
“Do you love me in this lungless form?”
and I say reassuringly, “Yes. After all, I’m not specific.”
The trouble with metamorphosis is that we don’t recognise our children.
I consider myself to be relatively compatible with technology
and my language of choice has evolved into a series of positive and negative moments
this of course suggests some vestigial notion of bipedality from which I have journeyed
I’m (like) down on my knees thanking mother earth softly for this gift of locomotion
it’s hard to contain this yearning for parallel stories….
Disrupting my contemplation, a crowd appears, running in my direction
“You don’t belong to me!”, I shout indignantly
I log out murmuring, “thank God for computers”
The trouble with metamorphosis is that we must make peace with the losses and gains.
I know that in one year’s time I will spontaneously shed another layer of skin
and I need to be prepared to shake it off and walk away, physically
the certainty of my biological processes makes me look upwards
for familiar stars, planets visible to the naked eye, and impending black holes
so encouraging are the signs of a cosmic battle involving muscled forearms
and complicated heroines doing their best to upend the order of things
despite everything, I’m sympathetic for all the satellites in each other’s faces right now
I say this out loud just to start up a dialogue.