Metamorphosis

Matthew
Homan

I saw her trying in the park
to squeeze her way into some dream,
and the seam of her being was split.

She had become like a tree
that knew not how to shed its leaves,
but which died there nonetheless.

I wished an intimate would unbutton her blouse,
breathe some air between her skin and soul,
so that the winged creature living there
might have room to roam.

When like snakes we silent slink into the dark,
and proud like women who just gave birth,
everything turns on whether what was between
is able to fly, or, wanting space, has clung, and died.