THE SOUNDS OF BUTTERFLIES
- Feb 14
- 1 min read
By Oak Morse
I have visions of a hammer swinging
into my face sideways through a car window
though strapped in a seatbelt, there I go
there goes the rasp of Grandma saying she loved me
the blueberries I pushed up my brother’s nose
the Jenga playdate with the shrink
in glossy building like an elevator to heaven
the tooth fairy who never came back
now teeth tumble down my chest, clog my throat
there goes creeping out late to watch grown-folks dance
Mama’s sorcery in the kitchen
birds on power lines who spoke my language
canned goods I stacked at the shelter
and there goes my nose—another whack, cratered
there goes the bedsheet Mama used for a curtain
the church food blessed for us
my belting melodies in the fan after a tail-whipping
the dial tones before our prank calls
another strike—cheekbones become gravel
there goes my first S-Curl dripping down the sink
stroke of Fur Elise
Six Flags with Mama
A Song in the Front Yard torn from a library book
the pink baby shoe I returned to a customer
my business teacher saying show your intelligence
and blood flows into tributaries across my face
there go the dress shoes pimp-walked at graduation
the rope that tied me onstage as a burglar
my footprints on the peanut farm
the stallions along Interstate-45
voyages of return—home again like a tourist
I pray my hand is not on that hammer’s handle
and this swing softens into the sound of butterflies