He is my incubation period. I hang from his pointed
elbows and grow fat on his words. His poetry is my milkweed, white poison
running down my face when I try to ingest too much. Poison is protection.
I sleep. I awake. I unfurl new orange wings, and the
weight of them drags me from my perch. I beat them to dry them, ready to leave
this place, ready to fly out of the brown heat into something cold and white
and ephemeral.
Butterflies cannot live in the snow.
