Gioconda Belli

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



one with nature.




Belli, Gioconda. "Metamorphosis." Trans. Steven F. White. From Eve's Rib. Willimantic: Curbstone Press, 1993. pp. 27-29.

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