- Published on
I keep them in my bathroom.
For most of the summer there it is: a mason jar filled milkweed. Caterpillars in various stages of their life-cycle, munching away. I have them in my bathroom so I can shut the door - to keep them in - and the cats out. But the door usually gets left open.
I tend to count them whenever I go in the room. Has a new one hatched? Are they all here?
I discover one is missing, and a heaviness settles in my heart. I count and re-count. It's not there.
Several days later, I find a caterpillar on the stairs. Quite a long journey from the bathroom for such a small creature. I gently scoop it up and bring it back to the milkweed. When I set it on a leaf, it curls up. It doesn't move.
Starved to death.
My heart aches.
I could have done more to prevent this from happening.
For most of the summer there it is: a mason jar filled milkweed. Caterpillars in various stages of their life-cycle, munching away. I have them in my bathroom so I can shut the door - to keep them in - and the cats out. But the door usually gets left open.
I tend to count them whenever I go in the room. Has a new one hatched? Are they all here?
I discover one is missing, and a heaviness settles in my heart. I count and re-count. It's not there.
Several days later, I find a caterpillar on the stairs. Quite a long journey from the bathroom for such a small creature. I gently scoop it up and bring it back to the milkweed. When I set it on a leaf, it curls up. It doesn't move.
Starved to death.
My heart aches.
I could have done more to prevent this from happening.
The pandemic has put my emotions in stark relief. I feel like I'm not doing enough, not doing the right thing, not trying hard enough...
I don't know what the truth is, but the majority of my caterpillars have become butterflies.
I don't know what the truth is, but the majority of my caterpillars have become butterflies.
- Published on
Your White Fragility
by Mary Pow
Are you fragile –
Will you break?
An ooey gooey egg.
Ooze into a hole,
And hide away.
Or is it possible –
Perhaps I’m wrong?
Your fist raised high
You find you’re strong.
And you uncurl.
Your shell is cracked,
You stand up tall.
That precious shell,
The pieces fall.
Thank God, they fall.
Released from shame,
You say his name
“George Floyd”
Again, “George Floyd”
And you move forward.
Look at you –
You’re in the street.
That shell is crushed
Beneath your feet.
And your eyes open.
Silence does harm,
You see. You warn,
“I won’t stay silent.”
You are reborn.
by Mary Pow
Are you fragile –
Will you break?
An ooey gooey egg.
Ooze into a hole,
And hide away.
Or is it possible –
Perhaps I’m wrong?
Your fist raised high
You find you’re strong.
And you uncurl.
Your shell is cracked,
You stand up tall.
That precious shell,
The pieces fall.
Thank God, they fall.
Released from shame,
You say his name
“George Floyd”
Again, “George Floyd”
And you move forward.
Look at you –
You’re in the street.
That shell is crushed
Beneath your feet.
And your eyes open.
Silence does harm,
You see. You warn,
“I won’t stay silent.”
You are reborn.
"Cracked" • 18"x 24" • soft pastel • 2020 • Mary Pow
Cracked is a painting that I completed in the aftermath of the murder of George Floyd, which happened only a few miles away from my home. While I worked on this painting, I simultaneously wrote the poem Your White Fragility. These two works are entwined.
The poem Your White Fragility, along with the painting Cracked equals a third work entitled Your White Fragility, Cracked. This artwork is intended to be a piece about the promise of change.
The poem Your White Fragility, along with the painting Cracked equals a third work entitled Your White Fragility, Cracked. This artwork is intended to be a piece about the promise of change.
