We want to start
with the chrysalis,
when we give
the grand tour of
our remaking. Wrapped
tight in the still, cool
darkness while flesh
dissolves into genetic
slurry, then reforms,
solidifies into a new
construct. The struggle
to break free, to unfurl
wings that will find
their bright, flamboyant
patterns in fragile dust,
is the stuff of legends.
It's a good place
to begin, when
every narrative ends
in emergence
as the queen
of the fucking butterflies.

What we don't like
to talk about is the time
before that. Inching
along on our stomachs,
a soft, undulating tube
of protein just waiting
to fill something's belly.
We aren't fond
of bringing up the fear
still nestled quietly
in our DNA. The knowledge
that each shadow we see
passing overhead, each
shifting leaf or swaying
branch carries sharpened
beaks set to tear and swallow
and every breeze