I promise that my name
is not Gregor Samsa,
has never been and never it will be,
yet I sense
resentment oozing in your eyes
I click my pinchers.
or probe you with my sensitive antennae.
Once my skin had hardened
to a shiny shell, black as gold,
I was convinced
you couldn’t hurt me, I felt invincible.
but any vertebrate is helpless
lying on its back,
and my upturned belly is now
an open wound. My blood is black.
Now I am
a metaphor of sleepless self, formed
to be reformed. I’m putty in your hands.
Maybe — tomorrow
you will let me wake me up as jellyfish.
The prompt by Shay at toads made me think of Franz Kafka and Metamorphosis, and I could not help trying to use that in my poem.
September 21, 2017