butterflies

we have to talk about butterflies.
i feel like when i was a jump rope 
everyone was always talking
about butterflies. their life cycles
& their wings & nectar feasts.
now, i'm an adult
& all we talk about is how 
fucking hungry we are. 
i get it. i really do. you start to forget
what you're supposed to do 
with your teeth. 
we have butterflies though & sometimes
if the season is right they fill the window
& ask all the questions you want people
to ask but they don't like,
"if you could start over again
what kind of animal would you become?"
i give them answers in the form
of poems. i fold them into butterflies
& then my butterflies join their 
butterflies. once i saw a butterfly
crawl out of a lover's mouth while
they were sleeping. i caught it & considered
letting it die inside a mason jar.
then, i could keep the wings. i wept,
feeling sick that i even thought of this.
i let the creature go & begged her
to forgive me. in first grade we raised
butterflies. monarchs. then, as a class,
we went out to the schoolyard 
& watched our teacher let them go.
some of them lingered. i opened my mouth
& one flew inside. he has lived here
ever since. i feel him sometimes
moving from lung to lung.
we have to keep talking about butterflies.
i will be honest, i do not think
they will save us. i do not know
what will save us. still, when i feel
the thumb of that creature. my blood,
a hydrangea bush. i am reminded that 
we all come from endings. tongues broken.
migrations of color from one bone
to another. a butterfly asks me,
"do you want to sleep longer than
the day will allow?" 
i confess to her, "lately, i do."