The last time
the butterflies went free
I was too,
gazing at him
cloaked in white
his half-smile opened my chest entirely.
— – – – – ——…….
This time more stoic
amidst the gentle breaking inside of me
the flora in my gut
disagree in sharp bursts
with the extent of the warmth around me
the colors within & without.
desire: to bloom back
into a body unaware of itself
that summer, when I raced along the ivy laden wall
bare feet pattering against bare dirt,
I became a raging comet
startling the monarchs in & out of their rest,
a source of gravity unable to balance pleasure with fear,
invincibility with the tiring of wings.
Now I am still, more skilled
at offering up my pain to silence.
……. – – – – – – – –
Olivier remarks that the children look like little caterpillars, I ask if that makes us butterflies.
He doesn’t seem to understand how much I need him to say yes.
BY: ALEXIA AVINA