Imago Vertigo

 

You used to be all

green segments 

neatly arranged 

in a perfect little row.

Nubbins for legs, 

little orange Velcro hooks

for toes.

 

With such machinery 

and such control,

you’d inch along —

all day

and

all night.

 

Beneath your bronze helmet,

serrated mandibles,

clacking chitinously,

mindlessly macerating

all leafy matter

in your path.

Frass burning out your ass — 

a nonstop energy extractor,

a tireless wormy

expander and contractor.

Gross, Orderly, and Acceptable —

You stuck to the contract.

Kept the pact.

 

Until,

one day you

blacked out.

Woke up in a bag, 

a disorderly warm soup, 

a dizzy swirl.

You felt viscerally

(even without viscera)

that to be suddenly 

Wormless and Formless

was wholly unacceptable.

 

How does the formless find form?

 

In your terror,

you tried force,

you tried will,

you tried plans and panic.

Alas no,

you stayed soupy and droopy.

 

Then one day,

just when you thought 

you were ready to succumb 

to this interminable entropy,

Imago cells activated.

Latent information let forth.

Liquid obeyed 

the magic of matter —

that trickster-shapeshifter.

 

The molecular mayhem

reconstituted into:

 

A black bulbous abdomen —

terrifying and terrific,

 

Six stiletto legs —

now for delicate perching, 

no more grubbing,

 

Your new tongue —

a sharp sipping straw 

prepared

for the nectar 

that awaits,

 

Your new eyes —

implacable black globes

of faceted mica,

 

On your back —

fierce flight muscles pulse, 

holy hemolymph delivers.

The veiny membranous sails

push the air

and you alight anew

into the atmosphere.

Disgusting, Lovely and, Wholly Unexpected.