Thursday, December 8, 2011
Does the butterfly remember the caterpillar,
at the moment of emergence from the chrysalis?
Spreading brilliant wings-
I walk around this house, still and cold,
a museum for the dead.
Framed photographs of a young couple,
smiling for the camera, preserved,
I don't recognize her face, my face,
looking like me, frozen in time,
surrounded by souvenirs, mementos,
objects collected on shelves,
collecting dust, my personal effects.
All wrapped in spun, silken thread,
Apparitions stir in the odd corners
as I try to remember the caterpillar.
My wings unfold, test their strength,
the chrysalis discarded,
the sky calls me home,
flapping against the panes of glass.
Now, how do I tell him?
How do I tell him I am leaving?