The Red Admiral Is Grounded

The Red Admiral Is Grounded

When you reach the point
where you realize that
you will never be taller than you are now,
or have the cloudless complexion,
or be beautiful in a way which
earns the hatred of strangers,
the wind will be knocked out
and you will have to learn to breathe again.

Who you are
is trapped inside what you’ve become:
lamina like thick, grooved rubber
letting only the sharp things in
and a lazy mouth which houses a wandering tongue.
All the scars are familiar and permanent
while the skin around them seems to pale and wince
as the passions do battle with that
which left them there to blaze with age.

Mounting fury catches in the throat,
digs its nails into the walls
and filches the whispers of
every outside, roseate zephyr;
no sound can rise from within
with the hope of ever being heard.

A mirror thieves unabashedly,
leaving the eyes in the reflection
to fumble weak and hazy.
What addled-eyed pod is this
that shackles the red admiral inside?
Should it be cracked in two,
the silks would surely fall away
to reveal the marrow and the meat,
casting the light for flight,
but this aged husk is too tough to split.

What you’ve worked toward,
has somehow passed you by
without so much as the squeal of a tire,
or the gong of a clock.