Mezcal End

Your formative beginning

was the underside of some leaf or branch,

a haven of factoried photosynthesis

Body of segments like life for you,

a series of moults, stages and progressions,

rungs on life’s ladder ever upward

to the chrysalis and celestial end.

But you,

breathing deep in spiracled obscurity

are meant for lesser end.

Human digit seized,

grasp and thrust you through

to smooth-surfaced cylinder,

poured death of sharp-biting mezcal,

fiery baptism bathing your end

‘til soft-tissued skin soaked up its killer.

What simple dream dashed.

The sound of wing aflutter

a silence never beat.

Float there in the bottle,

a dreg of liquid labeled,

by chance a dare some day,

but never a creature of wing.

con gusano.