It’s hard to become soft
Not like
Cleansing and perfuming fabric softener
But like
A meat tenderizer
Which even sounds kinder than it is
I try to make
This crunchy exoskeleton
Fuse with an even stouter backbone
And don armadillo armor
Which the scavengers avoid,
Even stench erased
It would be easier to stay this way
Than molt and stretch
and be seen
The excess weight is identity
Albeit exhausting
A make-up reality in which to exist
I wonder
Perhaps metamorphed being
Isn’t just potential
But happening
Incredibly slow?
I hear the call
Of a hundred birds
To rest under their singing tree,
Homage made to the rising sun.
Bird fluff swaddling brittle bones
I already know the translation
Is hope
