Chryslis

I’m in a cocoon, but not quite. Part of me watches from outside for every quiver and wiggle. I watch my hands with crepe skin and bold blood vessels. Fingertips, half grown, tapping on the keys. “Whose hands are those” I think. My tattered turquoise jogging jacket covers what my skimpy nightgown doesn’t. Zoom only sees me from the waist up. All my movement is in slow motion. My pen is dry. It scratches across the paper but cannot tap a drop. The cavernous hole left by my broken partial, squawks for me to suck my lip into the gap. And I oblige. My son appears in the doorway to my study and suggest I go outside and garden. Finally, the chrysalis is broken as I rise from my chair.