While she struggles to emerge,
I weave my own cocoon, retreat,
and as she's forced upon our world,
stare into her blurry gray eyes
through tubes and tape
through her own plastic chrysalis:
Come out. Together you and I will come out butterflies.
No cocoon can hold her.
She escapes, flies free,
leaves even her wings behind.
Now I struggle to resurface,
my cocoon, useless, falling away.
But nothing emerges.
Digging My Own Grave
Working in moonlight
I hold cold shovel
My breath a smoky wreathe
Dig until metal clicks immovable stone
Pull warm wet earth
Over me like a comforter.
I leave no marker to fade under caress of wind and rain
Erasing names and dates from stone
Smell the earth
for worry to lift
for hurt to rise
to feel differently in the morning.
I usually do.