There are days when you call me
and marvel at the sunlight out your window.
You finally live in the country
and can feed the birds.

There are days when you sit out
in your garden and breathe in
the fresh air touched with the scent
of the vegetables growing in your garden.

But do not breathe too deeply, Mother.
There are black butterflies nesting inside
your left lung, the kind that stay, the kind
that kill. And I want you here to see

This has changed us. You want
to spend more time with me, singing
Les Miz; I want to go on a retreat
with you and I want

to hold you in my arms
and rock you the way
you always rocked me; I'll sing
all the lullabies I can possibly muster.

This has changed us the way butterflies
come out of cocoons; so have we come
out of our shyness of love for one another.
We are now open, wings spread

trying to change from black to a rainbow
of colors so we can sit together and look
outside at the luminous night without
feeling frightened of the dark.

01/17/2006

Author's Note: first poem after I found out.

Posted on 01/18/2006
Copyright © 2024 Lisa Marie Brodsky