What Is Pupation If Not Purgatory Misdefined?

Observation:
___A violin lodges in a banshee’s throat, rewriting Canon in D as requiem.
___Its melody melancholies my marrow where these wings renounce flight–
___I, February. Caterpillar besieged by sagebirds unfurling dolour’s libretto.

Sonography:
___Bird 1 hums: The butterfly begs to keep moulting into grace.
___Bird 2 coos: Grief: a lengthy letter—keeps mailing itself to the wrong ribcage.

Diagnosis:
___Saint Paul once asked: Know ye not that your body is the temple of God?
___Never have I known this body to be anything but ululation.
___I—grief’s gospel made flesh. Butterfly beautified by dolour.

Prognosis:
___Bird 3 trills: The chrysalis is a conundrum even God cannot solve.
___Bird 4 chirps: No scripture chronicles this fracture between self and soul.

Autopsy:
___Within this body, rainbow wings whimper for freedom.
___Praying a litany of nearlys. Praying a novena of not-yets.
___Butterflies prove that God grants second chances,
___and Genesis admits God said: Let there be light.
___Why then has this body refused learning
___the language of (f)light?
___What is pupation if not purgatory–
___the closet misdefined?

Denouement:
___From my face, nimbus clouds cascade–
___A spring of sorrow, susurrating. And with quasi-
___smiles, Mother strings this spring into a rosary, sings:
___Here’s how you pray sorrow away. I point at my body, asking:
___When this purgatory loosens its grip, will my Eden finally emerge?