headline

(in the middle of a butterfly crisis, california sees a burst of painted ladies)

the butterflies

are migrating

by the millions

across the state,

          and i

          remember

          the time you told me

                  how you crushed a

                  monarch mid-flight

                  just to see

                          how it would feel

                          to have something

                          beautiful die in your palm,

                  how some things remain

                  forever a part

                  of our bodies:

          the clamor of bones,

          the sound of a door

          clicking shut,

clipped wings,

scarred knuckles.

i remember

          we used to let the dog sleep

          in the bed with us

          until she died

                  in a body like this.

                  now we let nothing pass

                  and i’m scared of the dark

                                          and death;

                          maybe they’re the same but

                          it doesn’t change the fact

                          that i can never fall asleep.

                                                  remember

                                                  this crossing as

                                                                  a burial

                                          tracked by scratch marks

                                          where we tried to claw

                                          our way out,

                          the exit wounds

of every unabated hook.