By Marlene Seven Bremner

They made a cocoon for her
cast by her earthy space

She laid as lasers swept
over her in arcs, arm of the machine
like vertebrae wreathing
and reaching as she, inert but wide,
dreamt herself upon a shore

Patron saint of cats, her mother’s name
drifted off her tongue

Maybe she’ll see her face
again soon was a thought unspoken
as I the pupil caught her life
with many angled lookings
avoiding what so plainly speaks

For itself was the life of the caterpillar
wrapped up and tending inward

Toward death’s butterfly amnesia
the silly fingers of children
unknowingly stroking dusty wings
crumpling toward the earth once more
with all that never answered.