flutter

You beg me to sing so loud,

pray that I will open my mouth wide,

the deep and dark bell of a shining cornet,

until seas of rippled butterflies barrel forth,

millions of burning leadlight wings propelled

to migrate 3000 miles across statelines,

to drink upon your milky weeds,

to float upon thermals in pink skies,

to shelter in the mighty boughs of Oyamel,

Abies religiosa - sacred, sacred.

What we’ve held in our hands is sacred, you say,

but my neon caterpillar died in it’s cocoon

the moment yours nestled inside hers

and fell asleep.

Remember - you searched but couldn’t find it,

nicotined fingertips brushing against

deadened herbs, the color bled from their stalks.

Transformation slides into place

like a nock along a bowstring -

the sharp glistening of januaries,

the sweet, rich butter of full moons,

the petaled commas of roses,

the eight loops of fishing line,

all eaten by enzymes starved and seated

at your grandmother’s tiled table,

a chemical reaction leaving only

a Babylonian tower of dishes

piled high in the kitchen sink.

My mouth, too changed -

no longer a portal,

no longer for kissing,

for whispering,

for feeding,

for singing.

for loving,

only a midnight cave with no end,

no treasure,

no magic.