A Woodlouse is neither a Proud
Worm nor a Heavenly Butterfly

 
I am a hiding thing.
I don’t have any hinterwings
for enforced metamorphoses.
 
You say you’ll be my hiding place –
that inside your red cave, flame-shaped wounds
there’s dead wood for me to chew.
Would you not flinch from fourteen feet creeping into you?
 
I will make you sick.

Helen Fletcher

If you have any comments on this poem,  Helen Fletcher would be pleased to hear from you.