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Grasshopper
He cannot fly, his wings are sere;
his sickly skin of yellowish-green
suffocates him like a clinging,
rayon leotard. Even his stark,
swollen eyes, unwinking and peeled,
distended like glistening, bald
heads, are actually slack and glazed;
nearly lifeless, they only fathom
obscure shapes of impending death.
The springs in his folded hind-legs,
curiously jointed and neatly gathered,
are now weakened and rusted; only
when teased too much or tormented
do they jerk him briefly in the air
or blindly dash him against a wall
in feeble imitation of their former
art. Does he remember how in his prime
he convulsed in trajectories of delight
like a nimble pole-vaulter or intrepid
aerialist, how easily he catapulted
his agile flesh across obstacles like
a rocket launched in happy propulsion?
Now, prey to disabling time, he lies
supine, unless startled in painful
fright. He flip-flops to another side
like a wounded bird in flight or a
shell-shocked helicopter careening
in the night. It's not that he was
always thus--he too knew a season
in oxygen, of intensified vitals,
wider hours, wild nocturnal flights,
and ecstasies, strange and sudden,
single or coupled. He too, an instant
or two, found that shuddering gasp or
shooting spark called love; how it
leaps into swift perfection, responds
to thirsting muscles, or shivers,
sated, slaked and sodden... but now
already old and inept, he's confined
to a sad, empty courtyard, impotent.
Abandoned, there he languishes, unfit
and useless, impervious to all help,
a dying grasshopper, baited by ants,
eaten alive bit by bit--mere carrion.
