cherry filling

i have given birth to myself three times

though each was a premature laugh away

from becoming a caterpillar that mistook itself

for a moth or perhaps the white cotton dress

it blended into after million years of evolution

in the wild contained eventually in a closet

of the woman who will wear it

with a smile radiating into the night ahead

that could attract the bug itself

though it does not move from the bottom seam

even as she dances and eats and raises her fist

to try on an anecdotal anarchy

a story of how she was twelve and older then

for she knew what she wanted

which wasn’t this thirty year old malaise

though she doesn’t mind the finger food

and the wine is delightful

and the desperate drunks are a good laugh

and this dress

she pats herself proudly

after blossoming but also

learning that a flower is nothing without

the sun and even less without the bugs

that visit as old forgetful friends

like the insect still stuck onto the end

of a life

of nakedness

of vulnerability found between legs

that will destroy you too

for it is the second time i am conceived now

like a star that has long since died

but is still spreading light your way

in the darkness that finds you crying

to be with someone other than yourself

for you are tired of all you are

but mostly are not

and won’t become because

you are expecting an i to teach you

but it is

the third time i have been reborn

after teaching my father how to give birth

to me

and my mother how to come here softly

like the crust of a pie that will bring me

into fullness of youth that i will spend my life

trying to reclaim

but failing to do so

even after my parents crumble

and i join them

unsatisfied with the lot

worn from white dresses

and a little sick of pie