Years ago, this was inspired by a fascinating word, metamorphosis. Also, years of counseling–many souls told variations of this.
In a therapy group, a silver-crowned woman reminisced.
At ten her life of dolls and skipping rope and Saturday
cartoons and Tyger sleeping by her side
(one eye gone, one whisker left)
froze, as a visiting uncle snuck
into her bedroom some nights.
As the phantom came,
she drifted to a cemetery with her best friend
earlier that summer, when, on a dare,
they snuck out at midnight under a new moon
and crisscrossed between silhouetted gravestones.
Sunlight blazed across her eyes through bedroom blinds.
Did she dream this phantom’s plunge?
Why was Tyger on the floor? Why did mother blurt,
“It was a stupid dream. Never speak of it again?”
The group froze with her.
Tyger knew. So did God.
Her group entered the bedroom and
comforted the ten-year-old girl
whose fifty-year-old tears
began to stream and cleanse.