Butterflies spilled forth from her mouth,
Like the promises I’d only dreamt to ever desire,
And just as heavily, entered the chains,
Bags to promise scars atop soil, long walks.
So come the tilling, the cull and the harvest
When merchants meet maidens, ***** hands wave
And having seen the second fracture,
At least I could share in the shouldering.
But the butterflies, eventually to crisp and husk
Under sun, stench and eventual ends prior Eden,
Dull blades and edges broken
Like the backs of those that believed before;
She’d be granted her wings, her winds and pomp,
Like the nights in Matamoros had promised –
Leaving me the luggage and at the least,
A scent of what love could mean.