poem17 Jun 2019 07:23 am
Painting of Figs and Beetle, by Giovanna Garzoni (1600-1670)

Colleen Anderson

She organizes, mindlessly
scurrying back and forth
bringing in groceries, creating lunches
filing, ensuring all things ordered
sometimes it seems she’s rolling shit uphill
when no one watches she stretches
an extra set of legs, pretends to dance
yet worries discovery means more work
 
She clicks her teeth
a hard rasp, mandibles to cut
her frustration, dirty clothes on beds
soiled dishes on counters, ties
to obligations, her self unattended
the reasons he can’t paint, or clean or love
she may as well be a bug, a beetle
for all she gets underfoot
 
She is good, so very good
staying in line, following the rules
they don’t notice her eyes watching
everything, the many facets
as she sits so very very still, pinned
as if under glass, inspecting every grain
the small secrets under the bed
tucked in a pocket, hidden in an external account
 
She has her own secret
wedged beneath her strong chitin shell
the beautiful clothes her city camouflage
feelings shielded from a careless brushoff
how she’s kept her hopes, desires to change
release erotic dreams burrowed away
and most of all her wish to be alive
not just a jewelled makech on a chain
 
Some day soon she will spread protective elytra
drop the guise that she cares
reveal her inner self, the vestigial heart
stretch out her wings, fly high
into the woods, a city, another home
where she will change, be seen
for what she is, no longer hide her strength
and what she will become 

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