When the teacher asked this lithe and curious girl
What she wanted to be when she grew up,
Her reply; a swan.
And in her metamorphosis
She sprouted wings from her arms
Like the roots of leaves;
Feathers replaced her gossamer dress
And her neck grew long
Into a pure white serif ‘S’
And for all that hybrid beauty
She could not help but feel
Sick at her grotesque form;
Drowned as narcissus in his mirrors.
Not quite Kafka’s black carapace horror
Feeling trapped
Like a butterfly in a child’s hands.
Suffering and self destructing.
The sound of the tips of its wings
Brushing against her palms
In a colourful seizure.