"Pupa" by Elena Zhang

We cocooned ourselves in our sleeping bags, still high from the marshmallows and campfire smoke, seeking warmth from polyester fiber filling and the nearness of our bodies, and I saw your eyes widen as you experienced a darkness you’ve never known, heard a quiet murmuration in the safety of our tent, a humid womb, empty and full, pulsating with fear and wonder while the unknown lurked just beyond the thin walls. I can’t sleep, you whispered, so I sang to you, trying to harmonize with the crickets and the wind and the shushing of the trees, our isolation so fragile, so momentary, and when night finally receded, I liquified into memory while you emerged into the dewy morning, spread your wings, and searched for the bloom of life. 

Elena Zhang is a freelance writer and mother living in Chicago. Her work can be found in HAD, Bending Genres, Exposition Review, and elsewhere. Find her on Twitter @ezhang77