The Metamorphosis

As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed. A dome of armor plate. A hundred wiggling legs. The room held still. The ceiling... the dark. And the panic rises: What has happened to me! He heard the lock turning. He heard the mother’s voice. He heard the father’s boots like judgments in the hall! He tried to answer... but only his shell would call! A gigantic insect! Not a cry! Not a cure! That is the burden, the fact of it! The sentence without a door! Gregor Samsa, transformed, contained in his own room; the family’s gaze, the locked wood, the shame that grows in gloom! He thought of the job, the master’s orders, of the train he must not miss; then of the violin, the sister’s playing, and the cold distance after this. No rescue. No pardon. Only the room’s hard edge— and a life made smaller by what it cannot shed! Then came the apple! A thrown red weight! Lodged and rotting in the flesh! The wound kept open... sour! And the others stood at the threshold, afraid of that frail hour! Afraid of that frail hour! What has happened to me! The house answers: nothing, still! A gigantic insect! Not a cry! Not a cure! That is the burden, the fact of it: the sentence without a door! Gregor Samsa, transformed, contained in his own room! A shell in the silence. A heart against the chill. The room.