Metamorphosis II
He awakes in his East Side apartment no longer a roach, but a man, and crawls out from under the bed—aware of a daunting loss without his feelers, his eighteen knees. His first instinct is to hide behind the stove, the small space along the pipe that enters the wall below the sink, but his six-foot-two-inch frame stops him. When he views himself in the long mirror behind the bathroom door he finds his image ghastly, but powerful like the Lady of Light when she comes home and flips the switch, erasing the night—sending him scurrying with the rest.
He tests his new miracle of mechanics: flexes his hands, opens the Heaven Box the Lady of Light often enters—eats till his belly swells and milk blends with jam and wine down his chest, then empties what’s left of its contents onto the floor—manna from heaven for his kind, feeling like a god. He sees two feelers emerge from below the sink and two more from under the table and smiles.
It’s getting late and he walks over to the recliner and kicks away a small stack of books beside it, eases back with his feet up and examines the odd shells backing his fingertips, instinctually puts them between his teeth and nibbles—scans the heft and breadth of his new body, and waits.
