Metamorphosis

They would have liked

to keep us in the jar

to watch us

through the glass

examining specimens

flapping in the butterfly net

fragile pretty things

writhing in the killing jar

buzzing and tapping on the

window pane

trying to get out

trying to get in

trying to fly

towards the sun

again and again and again.

But the chrysalis has hatched

and our other wings are dry.

They cannot pin us down.

We are not

the butterflies they thought

we were.