Metamorphosis

It is the eyes that show it.
Not the arms, tattoed
with lines of boreholes
drilled to sunken veins;
not the body, shrink wrapped
around the bones,
birdlike in its fragility,
nor yet the mouth
with its fictitious smile.
It is the eyes:
look through them
to the hollowness beyond,
the space scooped out
to feed this thing
that lived and grew inside,
injected into him
as a wasp inserts its egg
into the caterpillar
that will slowly turn
into another wasp.