MUSED Literary Magazine.


Katie Predick

No one grieves
for the caterpillar
becoming primeval sludge.

It is not
a cocooned hibernation,
swaddled meditation,
pillow fort nest;
catharsis of living.

It is
a horrifying liquidation
with just enough memory
to re-imagine being.

It is not
a beautiful becoming;
no soundtrack swells
when you understand gravity
and now must trust the sky.