To Piggy-Back on Quetzalcóatl

The caterpillar’s last instar lasts a single day
once she enlists as an aerialist; plump, she husks
herself with the patience of a matron peeling
her hose from her calves. What’s beneath

the stripes the insect molts looks at first
like wet egg-white, but it sets, her chrysalis.
And then the metamorphosis proper: the dew-drop
sarcophagus, its jade suddenly cellophane, cracking,

and the gymnast finishing her kip, she uncrepes
her wings. If caterpillars can turn into monarchs
the kid at the next desk says the question isn’t how
a bird could be born from a snake. If a bird

can be born from a snake, the question is how
to adore holiness by the swarm, its wings backlit
and leaded panes, warm with marigold.
But above the timeline on the slide, the feathered serpent

just holds his pose, one toe touching the zero
between before and after. Tapping the god,
the lecturer goes on. And as we all know he says
to piggyback on Quetzalcóatl, there’s Christ.

Jane Zwart teaches English at Calvin University, where she also co-directs the Calvin Center for Faith & Writing. Her poems have previously appeared or are forthcoming in Poetry, Rattle, Ploughshares, The Poetry Review (UK), and TriQuarterly, as well as other journals and magazines.