Metamorphosis of the Lamb by Julia Simpson

The month of March mastered the art

of self-transfiguration earlier than expected, this

year. They say

‘in like a lion, out like a lamb,’ but when the month

barreled towards us, the young ram already had

horns. The canine teeth

grew in fast. We didn’t see the claws until it sheared

away its own wool; the metamorphosis

was done before we even realized the change

had begun. But of course, more chrysalises

formed and were torn open from the inside. Maybe

the body of time always transforms

this violently; maybe this month’s different, or

maybe it’s just louder now. It took

this Thing, this earth-shaker, to remind us

that no continent is too big a ship

to splinter. So what do you call

a month that has outgrown its metaphor? An omen

from a disapproving God? Another

of Zeus’s bastards, left to its own

devices? This Thing is not living

its first life, but since we are – and since

our collective memory is a flock of paper-maché pelicans

floating hungry and oblivious on a restless sea –

its every move confounds, shocks,

agitates, intimidates. Sales of vegetable seeds surge

and fresh tomatoes bud beside new insecurities. March

growls. We panic. It is not speaking to us.

It grows and we feel

small. It shape-shifts and we are sent

scrambling again, but in the mad scatter, some

examine their own skin – our own skin –

and wonder, warily eyeing

the unending calendar and the unclean

air, Can we do that? Can we

change? Meaningfully? Lastingly?

Darwin says

yes, species can evolve, but that behavioral adaptations

made by one generation cannot be genetically

passed down to the next. Well, dear dead truth-

seeker, we are not your finches. We have

language. Doesn’t that count for

something?