I can’t say what it was that came in the night
and switched the child with something other,
but in the morning there was skin and hair
and bones in the bed in a size much larger
than what was tucked in, and the me that
I’d been was gone, a changeling in my place.
It rose sluggish and sour to pull on clothes
that couldn’t fit, popping buttons and seams,
crushing my shoes with heavy feet that went
clomping about the house unnoticed but for
the maternal admonition to brush its mane
and try some deodorant, dear, please.
In the afternoon it wandered outside and sat
beside a tangle of bearded iris on which a
cicada husk clung upside down and empty
after the emerging adult had split the back to
unfurl a pair of heavy wet wings that dried
into Tiffany glass masterworks.
With my eyes the changeling saw that hope
is the critter that crawls through the rift
when transfiguration rips us open, but when
everything changes, in the instant between
one form and another, we wondered, which
or what or who is driving that thing?
© Dana Hughes 9.12.16