Recurring Dream With Bright Orange Everything
I am standing in a church basement full
of monarch butterflies.
It smells like a perfume my grandfather
would have called dark humor
wrung from wet bark
at 6 pm in an impossible grove
of hundred-year-old trees and
Nobody warned me it would be like this.
A window propped open
with serious books hints escape route
and I climb through it
watching for butterflies. They are all
over my hands, my hair.
In a puddle, I realize my eyelashes
have turned bright orange.