by Caitlin Opdendries
the placard says that after moulting, an insect becomes soft, pale, fragile. in order to shed its skin it must become vulnerable; without the ecdysis of its exuviae it cannot grow. the insect must pause, put its life on hold, separate itself from its too-small skin. the shell cracks. the new carapace forms, a better fit, a better home. room to grow. it is difficult to be soft. the world tests limits and exploits where it can. armour has its advantages, there is no doubt. but we move on. we grow out of our old habits and exoskeletons. someday we will find ourselves standing at the top of a cliff and the only thought will be: fly.
Caitlin (she/her) has been writing since she could hold a pen. Her work has been shortlisted in the Spring 2020 Poetry Moves on Transit competition and published in a previous volume of the Capital City Press Anthology. She is a first generation Edmontonian whose heart is divided between Alberta’s prairies and the Pacific Northwest, and draws endless inspiration from the natural world in both places. Follow her writing on Instagram at @hyperlexical.
Capital City Press Anthology 