It’s the calm after the storm. 

The relief of knowing the worst is behind you. 


That the universe would need to build up the energy 

to cause further chaos, 

and the consolation of knowing 

that must take time. 


Though you don’t know how much, 

there is some time you can rely on 

in which you may rest.

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Volatile Child 

I sat with my Father,
And He spoke to me,
Softly,
As we watched the sun descend,

With my weary head rested,
On His chest,
I told Him of the skeletons I hid,
Behind the coats and boots. 

“That one’s names Val.”
“Ahh Val!” He recognized fondly, 
As He gave it skin and  flesh and a face.
“He’s been here a while.” 

I nodded. 
“I killed Val.” I whispered.
“A dream of yours?”
“Nightmare.” I shook my head, “Recurring.” 

The ache in my heart drew out the admission, 
“Father, I’ve been volatile.” 
He smiled, “Volatile child,  
I am your Father.” 

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Recovery

It’s knowing the Prozac wore off, 
Before realizing that the episode has passed you. 

Crashed,
like some wave behind you. 

You’re cold and frightened, 
but safe. 

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Freak of nature! You’re still alive?

I can’t seem to believe that I will hold on. 
Maybe my arms are just aching, 
Maybe I just don’t want to feel the branches slowly blister the skin of my palms, 
The free fall will be quick,
Painful, but quick. 

I let go, expecting the ground to reappear harshly, 
slap my back, 
snap by bones, 
twigs soon to be forgotten. 

I feel the flat earth catch my feet. 
Knees bent for impact. 
Why? 
Had I hoped preparation will preserve me? 
Why have I hoped? 

I look up, 
standing on stable ground now.
Look up to see the branch that I held onto, 
only a foot away from my reach. 

Some time between losing my footing, catching the branch and hanging for dear life,
I grew. 
Just enough to close the distance. 

Ten foot giant, 
stretched by necessity, 
evolving to stay alive. 
How will I fit in to the old world? 
Too small for me now. 
It doesn’t matter.

"Freak of nature, 
you’re still alive!" 

All rights reserved © 2023 Josephine Joyil

Butterflies

Blooming under my ribs.
Pupa erupting,
From cocoons,
Unsure if they are fully formed,
Meeting the world, their world: 
The flesh under my ribs. 

Squirming, squirming,
Still trying to break free,
To find daylight,
They burrow through muscle and skin,
Some through bones 
And I let them, 
For it is no life 
Hidden beneath ribs. 

One of us should be free,
To fly to the clouds,
And float away. 

Be free, my winged children. 

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Erupting Pupa

Little butterflies, 
flutter flutter,
under my little ribs. 
This is a disease.
Love bug or stomach bug, 
who knows the difference?
If there even is one. 
Regardless, it evolves, 
waiting to burst
from their cocoons, 
budding under my ribs. 

All rights reserved © 2023 Josephine Joyil

Honesty

Cats out of the bag now, 
Let it play in the yard,
Get a lay of the land, 
And learn if the dark fabric 
Was home or hell. 
The land won’t be kind,
It never is. 
Cursed apples and forbidden trees, 
Pretty sickness waits to settle, 
Health demand a sacrifice. 
But play! If there’s still a yard. 
Tell me, 
Is that heat you feel 
A gentle summers kiss
Or the paint peeling from the walls? 
Let the cat return to its bag. 
That fabric was neither home nor hell.
It kept that kitten safe from both. 
Hope and loss and all other poison, 
Can’t burrow into that bag. 
But do you want that, feline friend? 
You’re out of the bag now.
The light may be from dawn or danger, 
But nonetheless,
You won’t ever be in the dark. 

All rights reserved © 2023 Josephine Joyil

“Qu@k”

The ducks are lining up again,

Nice neat rows,

Waiting to attack.

Me?
No, surely not.

I give the commands.

*I* give the commands?

They're stareing me down now,

Bleak black beady eyes,

With the glint of expectation.

Say something.

What? 

Never the wrong words.

Don’t ok an attack.

“Attack.” 

The last word I can remember.

The last word I’ll ever remember. 

For the ducks, 

Dumb drones,

Took their leader's word to heart.

And I met a feathery death.

All rights reserved © 2023 Josephine Joyil