By Max Ritvo
After the cocoon I was in a human body
instead of a butterfly’s. All along my back
there was great pain — I groped to my feet
where I felt wings behind me, trying
to tilt me back. They succeeded in doing so
after a day of exertion. I called that time,
overwhelmed with the ghosts of my wings, sleep.
My thoughts remained those of a caterpillar —
I took pleasure in climbing trees. I snuck food
into all my pains. My mouth produced language
which I attempted to spin over myself
and rip through happier and healthier.
I’d do this every few minutes. I’d think to myself
What made me such a failure?
It’s all a little touchingly pathetic. To live like this,
a grown creature telling ghost stories,
staring at pictures, paralyzed for hours.
And even over dinner or in bed —
still hearing the stories, seeing the pictures —
an undertow sucking me back into myself.
I’m told to set myself goals. But my mind
doesn’t work that way. I, instead, have wishes
for myself. Wishes aren’t afraid
to take on their own color and life —
like a boy who takes a razor from a high cabinet
puffs out his cheeks and strips them bloody.
This poem is from Four Reincarnations by Max Ritvo (Milkweed Editions, 2016). Copyright © 2016 by Max Ritvo. Reprinted with permission from Milkweed Editions.
Poet Bio
More Poems about Arts & Sciences
The Last Word
I am a door of metaphor
waiting to be opened.
You’ll find no lock, no key.
All are free to enter, at will.
Simply step over the threshold.
Remember to dress for travel, though.
Visitors have been known
to get carried away.Illustration by Shadra Strickland
The Racist Bone
I know this is a real thing, because
When I was a kid, my big sister took me
To the Capitol Theater, in my hometown
Of Rochester, NY,
And there was a movie that afternoon,
The Tingler, which starred Vincent Price,
And what I remember best...
More Poems about Living
Grain Memory
A wishbone branch falls
from my Grandma Thelma’s oak
for me.
What do you know about magic? e1 asks.
E bends e old body down, turns
the wishbone branch into
a cross, places it around my neck.
I am strapped at the Black River’s right shoulder,
remembering my...
Another Antipastoral
I want to put down what the mountain has awakened.
My mouthful of grass.
My curious tale. I want to stand still but find myself moved patch by patch.
There's a bleat in my throat. Words fail me here. Can you understand? I...
More Poems about Nature
Another Antipastoral
I want to put down what the mountain has awakened.
My mouthful of grass.
My curious tale. I want to stand still but find myself moved patch by patch.
There's a bleat in my throat. Words fail me here. Can you understand? I...
Whenever you see a tree
Think
how many long years
this tree waited as a seed
for an animal or bird or wind or rain
to maybe carry it to maybe the right spot
where again it waited months for seasons to change
until time and temperature were fine enough to...