What fuels the sap that surges through the stem?
A slender stalk connects the force right through
like the pole that impaled Frida Kahlo, made her

Every second pay attention, focused her outside
the body. Pain at your core — exquisite messenger —
runs, quivering flower, until Death earths you.

These months rehearse you then; the days before
the butterflies, a practice. You hold onto life,
a flailing babe fed by an umbilicus. Attached,

You’re a cocoon, only a wanna-be-butterfly,
the loamy dirt, the tendril and the root,
the rock and pebble, water, and the heat.

When done blooming and bleeding,
you fly with the wind before you land.
Metamorphosis plays for keeps.