allegory ovenbird Antheraea Polyphemus has a six inch wingspan and a six day lifespan. Does she understand that you_only_have_so_much_time? Does she remember the caterpillar-self that gorged on the future to build her body anew? Does she struggle to cry out with her vestigial mouth that provides no mechanism for relieving hunger? Six days does not leave room for language so we speak in symbols. My body is a sign in the shape of awe. Her body is an allegory of transformation and death. We encounter each other in silence, trade knowledge of our inevitable demise. Does she know that my body is failing too? I might get years where she gets days, but vitality wanes nonetheless. The biological systems that have sent their chemical instructions into my blood and brain for decades are dwindling and I don’t know what I’ll be when they cease. When youth is gone and motherhood is a footnote, what self will I grow into, fed by the crawling creatures I once was? What will I do with this fistful of time that belongs to me and need not be spent on anyone else’s wanting? When there is no other purpose encoded in my cellular memory, I suppose I will do the only thing left–I will lift the frail membranes of my wings to the world and throw myself into whatever flame dares to take my body into its feral heart. 250605 what's it to you? who go blather from