a butterfly

goes

where the salt is



licks
the sweat

from skin



when i was eighteen you and i bought monarch caterpillars off the internet

they came in a jar, packed next to their own food

they were fat, little, striped green and black





for days, we watched them crawl around a mesh tent that had been sent to us





one day you called me over to see that they had all turned into pupae

green jade hanging from the ceiling of the tent





annie dillard describes a moth emerging from its chrysalis—hot, she says it was

shaking in her hands





the ruined moth didn’t have enough room to spread its wings, they hardened, crystallized





you want to trust a living thing, sometimes you try to touch it







the butterflies emerged, one at a time, none of them dead







they fluttered around the mesh tent, we felt sorry, we unzipped it and they careened

around your dorm



knocking against

the windows







a butterfly

goes

where the salt is





licks



the sweat

from skin





i put my hand out and they landed

ticklish

bristly body tiny legs



very light



i thought i was magic, that they loved me





you want an animal to trust you, don’t you?







it wasn’t love but they ate







we didn’t know how else to feed them





we didn’t think of letting them go







when they died

because of course they died

because everything dies





we kept their bodies intact





and used them in art



you took pictures of me

the scales
came off in my hands



little dust



like something from a distant planet



and then what—



i forget what happened



we grew up





and distant



we got
hot and away from each other







you live somewhere else now

i live somewhere else too