The boughs
of the phylogenetic tree
show clearly
that we’ve evolved away
from our shells
being bound to our spines —
hiding our faces
and tucking in our limbs
won’t save us
from the calamity
that life decides to hurl
in our direction.
I guess that must be why
this feels unnatural.
In the back of my throat
I form words that
pool like mercury:
strong and sterling,
but suddenly disjointed
and toxic
at each hesitation.
They want
(more than anything)
to soar in their elocution
tossing the deadweight
of insecurity
off their backs
as they unfurl
their exuberant wings.
But it’s so hard to fly.
No one can just sprout wings
spontaneously.
Even the caterpillar —
a recluse inside its chrysalis —
has to dissolve its own body entirely, —
only barley dodging death —
leaving itself a puddle of potential
before it can rebuild itself from scratch
and flutter off
to the bright blue skies.
