The vines
Are twisting
From my ears.
My eyes have become
pistils in motion
and purple flowers
flow from my mouth.
As I walk,
the house fills
with my leaves.
My branches block the room,
and I’m tangled up in everything.
My nose has already turned green, too,
and I no longer smell the same.
I bump into the furniture,
and my legs are breaking through bricks
in search of land,
tangling me up even more.
Now that my hair pushes against the walls,
I can barely move.
My arms have shrunk away,
leaving just my fingers,
while my body’s
become a trunk.
With my fingers
I touch my new
self all over
among the leaves
and twigs
and flowers that fill my mouth
and stain my teeth.
My fingers explore me
With a touch fertile
for my growing branches,
and finally,
after so much resistance,
my hands give in
and tiny thorns sprout
from my nails.
The purple flowers from my mouth
cover my body,
and in my metamorphosis
I am a twisting mass of vines
thorny,
alone,
one with nature.
Belli, Gioconda. "Metamorphosis." Trans. Steven F. White. From Eve's Rib. Willimantic: Curbstone Press, 1993. pp. 27-29.