Poem Where We are Butterflies, and: Epistle from a Missing Black Woman, and: Hedera, and: Poem Where We are Fireflies

Poem where we are butterflies

sometimes we find ourselves in placeswhere flowers hide their bloom;

sometimes, we don't knowthe difference between

pungent rot or honeyedsunflower or spring garden

or window flowerpot; we live to landon something, wings fluttering,

to leave some atoms of self behind,to repeat the cycle, to live a brief, bright life.

Epistle from a Missing Black Woman

When you file the report,tell them my eyes are unsolved cases,my mouth a missing woman,my head, disembodied,Charon's middle finger. The cross-ways of Acheron my hair.The building blocks of my faceare tragedy at first glance.My neck can hold the weightof the Atlantic.

Sincerely,[Unnamed]

Hedera

Her family grew,stretched from soilto trellis to brick.

She was in theresomewhere, leafclinging to thin

stem, holdingto vine, welcomingheat but avoiding

direct light. She knewtoo much sun burnedlayers, browning

so deep stemswould break off,separating her from

familiar. So she grewwelcoming shade,reaching up to

tin roof, touchinggutter, traversingwood and dried clay,

reaching for birdbirth sky.

Poem where we are fireflies

He pulls wings off fireflies;whimsically catching them,he jumps victoriously in the air,cupping his hands together, jailingthem between his palms; he marvelsat their light, how their brilliancedisappears then reappears betweentight grip and blinks; it is saidwe are endangered, losing battleafter battle to his innocent hands,only surviving long enoughto light each other's path.