You stand in the doorway of yourself watching
time rearrange furniture. It flipped and sold your childhood
home and you lived there in the aftermath a stranger
in each room enduring well-meaning well-wishers adoring
the layout. Your mother calls it blossoming as you rot
before her eyes. This body is a triumph. This body is a blessing.
This body demands you remove your shoes before you go exploring.
You don’t stop there—you step out of your feet, take a leap and lose the legs—
you dream yourself a different life. Down there in the knobs of coral
there are no words to call yourself. The sun streaming through the water
doesn’t strip you bare for viewing—you are free to change unseen.
To call the transformation total would be a convenient lie
when the urge for ever-shifting reduxed transcending
was constant choking on fear and expectation.
They’d all call this change natural.