identity crisis

identity crisis

 

nothing terribly weighty

no, no substance here

lest you consider air

or breath

perhaps

 

tis all she has to offer

and yet lighter still

a balloon floating

o’er the net

a butterfly caught in it

 

released at last from womb

confused at her own changing

shape to shape

as name to name

balloon, ballon, baru-n, ballong

 

the children cry

leaping just to tap her

higher

just beyond the grasp, the clasp, the gasp of ‘mine’

 

but she will not be caught

not even by herself-

defining labels

as if she could be named

 

when she simply wants to be,

to fly,

on gentler wings

to beauty drawn away

     

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