Wings come in pairs
Originally appeared in The
Hollins Critic
Volume XXVII, No. 3, June 1990
Snow whispers
promises
as it melts. A mouth, too,
breeds its own kind of ghost:
the red stain on the cheek, the noise
of lips on the move, the short-lived
kiss, its tiny belly swollen with tongue.
I no longer remember
what I told you about your eyes,
love, butterflies, autumn leaves. But now
butterflies look like wings in a rush--
the spinal cord still dangling
between them. I rake up
the dead, pick through the remains,
take home whatever gold I can find.