Butterfly Dreams

It was my fault
I fell in love that August afternoon.
The storm bullied through the bathroom window,
scattering bits of glass like glitter on the floor.
I befriended the wind, looked into his eyes
the color of stones, granite wet from rain,
his rough hands twisting my curls in a wild halo.
I believed the roaring of his voice meant love,
the way his kiss left me gasping.
 We whispered in weird collusion,
 laughed at the thought of iridescent bubbles
bouncing off the ceiling.
Who is frightened of a hurricane, I asked,
buoyant with trust--
if held in its very center-- if I believe
its very heart is a child?

 Dolphin-like we wrestled until
 the white porcelain tub overflowed
and we spilled onto the unromantic linoleum,
two unearthly beings: my beloved
 made of gray filament and stars,
 a man-cloud wearing feathers from jostled birds,
and I, crazy haired from passion, mascara smeared,
 a bathmat slung like a sarong around my hips.

We stumbled from our flood to find the hallway
had become a narrow path edged with trees,
branches sodden with moss and  memory,
an underwater world, a verdant blooming,
flowers the color of fish.
Fingers entwined, we knew each step forward
no matter how careful or quiet
led farther from the garden,  
that the world is a shallow cup and breakable.
 How the ocean, as fragile as the heart,
 holds only so much salt.

In the sudden forest of cinnamon air and emerald petals,
a hundred  butterflies and iridescent beetles
thirsty from the downpour,
nestled to dryness,
gave up their brief lives to the palm of our hands,
our terrible and empathetic hunger.
We chewed each one carefully,
each golden color and tiny bone
brittle against our teeth
 as though we were tasting flight,
the way sweetness and freedom
and love were words
made up of the most fragile and edible skeletons,
 the way the tiniest bodies
gave themselves away.

-- Lisa McIvor