“Endomorphosis,” “Three Times Asked and Answered,” and “Family Knots”

“Endomorphosis,” “Three Times Asked and Answered,” and “Family Knots”

Endomorphosis

The chrysalis comes in grey

matter, some lines of white

to tell the rest of me when

tearing starts.

It isn’t pain

as a bone might be

if pulled from me for some other

body to use.

No, it isn’t the pain of shifting

skin and splitting seams so

all the blushing becomes

a puddle.

It’s pain the way a tree breaks

ground             the way the soil rips

and never stops

being ground.

The way the tree pushes roots

where the dirt once was

shoved and parted and made itself

new earth.

I can feel the rending of the shell like soil

savor the waves stretching

gaps filling with new ways of knowing

this sky I am

Wings unfurl in grey and red

dendrite patterns stretch and flap and become

a familiar stranger in this body

still apart from the ground.

Three Times Asked and Answered

Are you sure

asked before the twenty-four unhidden stars

five floors above the long-set sun

when you reach to bind one

willingly from two and he whispered

in one-third certainty

yes

Are you sure

asked before the tender touch

of her allure twists to a tongue

that would conjure a siren song

from the satin night and from the two again

make one when he states

in two-thirds certainty

Yes

Are you sure

asked before his hands reach deep into her

to secure the final screaming

lure that will make more of him than he had

before her offer to cast this cure on him and

again he said

with his full chest,

three-thirds certainly

YES

Family Knots

Flaking white and red rust rip through holes in the blue

tarp we pull snugly over the patio furniture. Dad pulls

twine in and around the corners, wraps the metal

leg of a table, and I meet him in the middle.

We twist into a knot

we know we’ll have cut

come the thaw.

Winter will mangle these threads, make untangling

impossible, demand the simple edge to sever the mess

so we can unpack the plastic chairs and pool decorations.

And under the sun, six or more of us

will wash the grime from the seats,

scrub the grit from the tables, power through

stains in the concrete and place everything

neatly in the open

for as long as the cold can be kept at bay.

About the Author

Fletch Fletcher

Fletch Fletcher is a poet (obviously), a science teacher, a brother, and a bunch of other random things that may or may not help you understand him. He is grateful to have worked with and learned from amazing poets while getting an MFA in Poetry at Drew University. Fletcher’s collections include Existing Science (Assure Press, 2021) and Confessional (Finishing Line Press, 2024).