by Rylee Park
Miss Butterfly
with your sticks of margarine
rock candy crushes
placenta buried in the yard
oh, Miss Butterfly
this mess you’ve made:
superimposing petals
undressing like a moth
for candle light
two twin mosquito bites
crickets on your end of the line
sirens on mine.
Miss Butterfly,
i’m not doing so well these days
searing under bonfire eyes
swearing on my grave
livewire kisses,
and in my bed
Miss Butterfly,
the flame is still dancing at home
won’t you trace your birthmarks back to me?
because this is how we meet.
forty-one miles to Laguna Beach
hopscotch arsonists,
dead girls walking,
you can find me in the mulberry bushes
three quarters past rye lane
spread across dragon’s briar
all marmalade on wanting fingers
Miss Butterfly,
you don’t look well these days
wrist caught in the jam jar
spit up and watermelon tourmaline
Miss Butterfly,
do you still pray to st. Francis?
i’ve found religion in alarm clocks,
lane lines, folded towels,
coconut curry, and bitten lips
Miss Butterfly,
i told your secret
and got the truth—
there is no milk or cream in the fountains
no painted toes or gentle giants
mermaids or missionaries
just a dozen eggs.
one stick of margarine.
rose quartz.
babies and bel air.