The Butterfly

She searches for stars in the quiet cold

of his face, in the sky-like plain

of his blue face, his pale face.

She remembers lying in the silky

sleeping bag, the red fiery envelope -

coccoon of her youth - in the backyard

pointing up, lying beneath

the weight of sky

the moist, wet, beautiful

night weight of sky.

Her metamorphoses.

Seeing those stars, those magnets,

those glinting teeth of her smiling

first lover, those burning hot teeth

sinking into her body - those stars full

of wishes, she blew kisses

under the moist blanket of dreams

inside the fiery satin of youth

in the backyard, she yearned

for her wings.  And now

the luke warm wrapping

of adulthood binds her, confines

her, the dry, warm bedroom,

with the roof up above, and the vast

weighty body that covers her -

She stares upward, pointing

at the blank sky of his plain

face, planting kisses, she begs

for the return of lost stars.
She cries out

for the gift of her wings.