Old Habits

Old Habits

I needed to renounce familiar things—
I wasn’t going away, I thought, but towards.
Now, pulled out of black waters,
wet towels draped across my back,
my old home will not hold me anymore.

Who can teach a caterpillar joy
when, comfortable with creeping, she must fly?
Craving leaves, she finds her teeth are gone
and though her life has been a holding on
she no longer feels steady on her branch.

When does she forget her other parts—
bright wrapping-paper wings around
her hungry, crawling heart.

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