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I do not dream of butterflies
It is hard to fathom
the small, frigid hand
clamped in mine.
You have held it so long
I have memorized it all.
The wedding ring,
the engagement ring,
your freckled knuckles,
flaking nail polish,
and sweet fingertips.
So unlike my own.
So soft, so somber.
We walk the skyline
and the city blocks.
It is all brick, mortar,
and concrete
punctuated by pigeons
and men
whose lives are distilled
into shopping carts.
Turning to me the words tumble
from your mouth:
"I dream of butterflies"
My feet are dead weight
against your words.
I am six again
At the base of a waterfall
with my mother.
Her canvas shoes
soaked by the splashing.
Illuminated by the summer sun
majestic monarch butterflies
land on her shoes
for a moment to drink.
twenty, thirty, until there is not a space left.
She lights up a cigarette and we laugh
at the majesty before she cradles my hand in hers.
I do not dream of butterflies
there are no waterfalls here.
Only broken marriages and
bleeding knuckles.
Some of us dream about Saints
and sidewalks.
For we cannot all be a butterfly.
