Butterfly Man

By John Grey

 

Lying on the grass.
I imagine myself as an egg
armored by shell,
lined with a thin layer of wax
so I don’t dry out.

 

I grab onto a blade,
mature through a series of instars,
puff out neurohormones,
then cling like a pupa,
metamorphosizing
as I sway in the gentle breeze.

 

I grow wings,
two large compound eyes,
sensory and taste receptors,
antennae,
and fly off to the nearest flower
to dine on nectar.

 

Lying on the grass,
I am anywhere but here

 

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Hawaii Pacific Review, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Blueline, Willard and Maple and Clade Song.