The Butterfly Forest

In the Salt Marsh: Poems (2004)

Sir, your scalp turns shy, yankedinto light, veiled by hairso thinned by months of chemoit lies like grass beaten flatby the wind or the feet of trekkersclimbing away from the gardens,the woods, the glad streamstoward the summitwhere lives seen only in partlie clear as cities asleepunder the gaze of pilotsordered to bomb them. Todayyou bustle us to this placeyou have always wanted to see:the butterfly forestin the conservatory,where captives do not knowthey are captive, so lushis their prison: hibiscusand roses and passion vine,the air warm and moistto keep the blood movingin these cold-blooded vampstaking their ease in a spa,their silken kimonosfluttering. The zebra longwingssurround uslike a sprinkle of flying masks.The viceroy, brownwith mildewy spots, closeshis dull book but opensfor the patient reader;the painted ladiesflicker their shadows like tonguestasting good gossipand a ghostly kiss on the cheek.They ride on our shoulders,our hair. When we leave,even you shake off ghostswhose lives are half over.The eccentrics, the shy,the perfectly groomedin their tails and cloaks,even the bright oneswe would love to wearin our cold worldwant us to carry them.