Picture in Gregor Samsa's Room

From the day when he cut it out of a magazine,

when he saw it gazing into his soul

with furry eyes, planting the sense

of beauty and charm mixed into

a homogeneous feeling of possessiveness—

since the day he hung the picture on a side of his room

where he and she can exchange gaze like secret lovers

in a world where all truth is concealed—

since that day she watched the man recede

to a subhuman state, she with the moral toughness

of mahogany furniture. How she strained herself 

to keep her form unchanged, not a pint of color altered, 

and through the years she remained serene, unmoved,

like the rest of the objects in that room.

And when he finally broke out of his cocoon

and turned into something less than he was,

the horrible vermin embraced the picture 

with trembling, because it was his even 

when she couldn't recognize him anymore.