Winter settled in and wrapped around our ankles, I shuddered,
put water on the stove. Convinced myself spring was soon,
collected loose butterfly wings from the floor, fluttered
and de-cluttered, dusted around the flaky, grey cocoon
I lock my dreams in. Several spent soaring in first flight,
oil-slick indigo on midnight on ebony-green. But
these feathery tendrils melting up into a powdery white
are not the antennae I dreamt of. Time lapses between naps,
I snack on silk scarves, sip from buttery flowers wide
as cups in my four furry hands. From the shaker I take my salt.
Where are the colors, where are the stripes? The stories lied,
from beneath the earth I came and I'll slouch back to sleep it all
away on a stack of forgotten pages faded in the window;
I am Moth, full of ashes, burning my face in a bulb's glow.
In the dark smoke in this room, both thinking aloud,
your atoms rearrange as her star column legs
lift your mind from its socket into clouds
of stardust, and this planet shrinks to dregs
beneath you as you're born through atmosphere.
Oceans become navy smears of watery acrylic
three hundred miles down, and her heels spear
between your vertebrae, cutting the umbilical
tie to viridian Earth. Soon, your soul surfaces
shimmering on your skin, crackling as you hover,
mimics the electric exponential expansion of the universe
when it collides with the shining skin of your lover.
This heavenward ascension from the heaving of your hips,
becomes every genesis of a new star, every total eclipse.