by Jeanette Lynes
One day your exoskeletal seam splits –
rips irreparably, dear old sheath,
dermis, loyal husk –
The good news:
you now brandish four wings. Enormous eyes. The bad news:
you have two months to live
and dating can only transpire midair.
What genre are you? –
Skimmer? Cruiser?
You’re pretty sure you can shoot water
out your posterior – nifty party trick!
And such wing surges, might you play accordion?
Better still, be a flying accordion, eat the orchestra! –
this cross-winds your
think-cavity, so terribly
famished are you now.
They’re severe against
nostalgia now
And yet –
sometimes it flickers before you like a picture show –
the human beat, Sunday drives through scruffy hills,
bush a-thrum with green darners,
jackson-pollocked with trilliums.
The Marmora man renowned for his
dragonfly photographs. You could have been art.
— from Juniper Volume 1, Issue 2