Mid-metamorphosis is not the time
to ask a fellow how he is. Should he
be turning into she or it or they
or otherwise revising his entirety
into another gender, phylum, genus
in whatever way successfully
affords him ingress to a new identity,
it’s not the time to query him about
his coffee break or politics or penis.
Whatever secret laws beset a fellow
who would intersect the way
our Hector, here, has now elected
to effect (by opting to adopt not
this but that accoutrement and body
part of flying insect) will deflect
the sweetest gesture of affection
or the most ferocious spiteful
hatred or abject rejection.
Mid-metamorphosis, you’re never
ready for inspection. The thing
you were is half abandoned,
what you are eternally unsure,
the thing you’ll be is a hypothesis,
the rest is endlessly behind a curtain.
Nothing’s pure or certain. Hilariously
harrowing to look around and realize
mid-metamorphosis describes the state
of every bit of everything you look at
and of everyone you see. You’re
the middle of a complex, darling.
The middle of another one is me.
Perhaps we oughtn’t to ask silly
questions anymore. But what ones
aren’t silly? Oh, let’s bravely keep on
doing what we always do. Ponder willy-
nilly anything we feel the craving to.