I envy the small green snake
peeking out from behind my Begonias.
Tired of her skin, she slithers out of it. Sloughs it off,
leaving it tangled in the leaves like a discarded coat.
One ziiiiiiiiip from eyecaps to tail and she is new.
Scales shiny as airport shoes, she carves through
the thick St. Augustine grass. A regal
huntress, parting the tides with
I envy the patient cicada
ground-bound, larval and waiting to push
his way out of his dusty incubation. Tree-
clinging as he unwraps his luscious iridescence
from it’s casing. Blazing from silence to
symphony in the course of one day.
Tymbals vibrating their eager
mating song, attracting love
on the first go-round.
Buy why? Why don’t I
have buttons down my spine or simple
snaps to yank at when my body begs to re-emerge
as something new–when I ache to boast and shine?
Why? Why must I carry these heavy rewrites
in my cavity (this evidence of change
like anchors on my wings) when
all I really want to do is sing?
Maybe one day you’ll see me
latched barkside to that tree.
Teasing my way out of the skin
I’m in until I plunk into the dirt.
Until I slither and then fly. Shiny
and high. Leaving only
an effigy–a hollowed-