The Butterflies
You unzip my dress, a curve from the side of my left breast to the top of my hip. My body is a column of butterflies. One by one, roused by the light and cool air, they wake from sleep. One by one they open their wings, responding to some deep internal pressure, the instinct to be free. They scatter in all directions; I learn what it means to be in many places at once.
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The Worry
Convinced that the house would fall down the second the door slammed and she drove off in the taxi, Mother spent the morning stapling things together. It was a large house, so this took some time. She began by stapling the walls, then the floorboards, then the furniture was stapled to the floor. Even the petals of flowers were stapled open. When Father arrived home at six o’clock, she was just finishing in the kitchen. He’d hardly taken off his coat when she stapled him to his chair. She served him fried chicken and mashed potatoes with gravy, which he ate, staples and all.
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