Brittle husks cling to the cedar siding of our house,
abdomen, head, six legs, two white threads
dangling like untied ribbons on a gift.
I find one shell not yet vacant.
A green and black head lifts
from the rift in its back.
Had the itch become too great,
his shell too cramped?
My shoulders squirm, too,
as he presses and bucks,
and rears up his torso
to free his long abdomen inside.
Still tethered by tendons emerges a dragonfly.
His head and abdomen glisten as they firm,
brown and yellow spots appear on his body,
wings and tail stretch to an equal length,
his wings clear to crystalline windows,
iridescent in the morning sun.
Then in an instant his wings flare out,
a cross splayed on cedar boards.
He hangs and hangs. I wait,
restlessly stretching out my arms,
rising to my tiptoes, and then
in a flurry of wings awakened,
too furious for my eyes to fix,
he whirrs away, his new form
unfolded and free.
Sometimes I see one on a supple stem of a red geranium
with no leverage to push out
or another who hangs awaiting wings forgotten.
How will I emerge
when this itch under my skin
urges me out of places
grown small and wanting?
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