the metamorphosis

“all humans are subject to
decay,
and when fate summons, monarchs
must obey.”
John Dryden, Mac Flecknoe, (1682) 11.1

born several months early
and under the wrong sign,
capricorn’s curse
encased you in glass,
a diamond
in your unwed mother’s dowry.
jaundiced skin
pulsated the morse
of a monarch’s wings
on a killing jar at sunset.
the glowing orb dimmed
and all but the swish
of rayon tights
was silenced.
discontented orderlies took gondola rides
down hallways they never intended to travel.
the institution was alive
with navigations across carelessly waxed terrazzo,
while an unattended lily
wilted
in its Waterford vase.

3 thoughts on “the metamorphosis

  1. I read a lot into this, but isn’t that the point? Quite amazing to ponder what conclusions we draw and where our biases lead us.

    To specific ponts in the poem, I connect personally- born almost two months early, a jaundice-suffering Capricorn was I. The others I project a narrative based on the story of my daughters birth. Finally, I find myself reading someone else’s story, and wonder how much to read figuratively and how much is literal.

    Thank you for this, it has taken me out of myself for a few moments.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I read a lot into this, but isn’t that the point? Quite amazing to ponder what conclusions we draw and where our biases lead us.

    To specific ponts in the poem, I connect personally- born almost two months early, a jaundice-suffering Capricorn was I. The others I project a narrative based on the story of my daughters birth. Finally, I find myself reading someone else’s story, and wonder how much to read figuratively and how much is literal.

    Thank you for this, it has taken me out of myself for a few moments.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Roger,
    Thank you for taking the time to read and reply. Quite honestly, I’ve always been intrigued by the notion of being born under the “wrong” sign, and the implications of such. Good, bad, indifferent. Hard to articulate.
    The most beautiful thing about poetry to me is that everyone walks away with their own meaning. There is no right or wrong or absolute.
    All my best,
    Mary

    Like

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