Jody's Notes
Some images come first. First in this case (sitting in a notebook somewhere for a while) was: butterflies look like wings in a rush, the spinal cord still dangling between them.
In fact, I remember exactly when I thought the image up. I was walking with someone through a field. And she said: butterflies are so pretty, don't you think? And I said: Not really. They remind me of .... (And that image popped out.) The usual response to me, of course: The stuff you think of. What's wrong with you?
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 face, 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.
© 1990, 2001 Jody Azzouni