to the best of my recollection.
When I was twelve, I stood very still by the honeybush,
waiting for butterflies to land in my hair.
When they did, luck was with me
and I swam faster than my best friend
who had her own swimming pool.
She'd capture butterflies and kill them with shellac
spray. Once, a dead fritillary flapped again,
startling us. At six, I used to wait for caterpillars
(one lived in the dollhouse I kept on the patio)
to shape shift, sleeping and rolling over and over
in its tight bed. The bed I sleep on now is narrow for two
and some nights I remember being a butterfly
while the human beside me wrestles in his sleep--
and I wonder, what is he becoming? And then
I wonder, where did my wings take their leave?