The Quiet Thoughts of Butterflies

she says "I'm worried if I breathe
too loud the silence will
swallow me."
I watch her hands press butterfly
wings between the pages.

         does she know that
         I'm the queen of silence?
         my corpse lungs and
         graveyard lips; a decomposing
         tongue lurking behind white-washed
         tombstones.  paint me with sunbeams,
         I'm still the same.
                  [death warmed over]

her tropic gaze rakes over
the bone-white snow.  "I keep
swallowing the snow-flakes.  they
remind me of frozen flowers.
their dead sweetness is
addicting."

         I close my eyes.  'yeah,' I would
         whisper silently.  'I seem to be that
         kind of obliterating drug.'

she turns back to the pages,
her hands stained with
shimmering wing-scales.  "butterflies
don't belong in jars," she breathes.

her fingers pluck their wings, one
by one, like petals.  "they have wings
for a reason."

         and I've become jealous of a
         dead insect that knew the dance
         of flight: an intimate lover.
                  [but I can't learn the steps]

"how do they survive the winter?"

         just like you, my darling.  they
         curl up and go to sleep.

"the snow looks peaceful."  her eyes
wander to mine:  "heavenly."
her mind gropes on ice; "like you
could just lay down and die."

                  [inviting]

"but I don't think I'm afraid
of the mouth of silence; just
her throat.  it's an excruciating
beauty."  she pauses before
unleashing her private storm.

"I always wanted to tangle tounges
with silence."

         I tread on moody toes through
         the silent snow.  in every
         breath I capture a piece of the snowstorm.