Reborn, a butterfly with paws, gnarled breath and fangs. Letters crumble from your lips, your right blue eye dips, your brain hardens to an anvil were the darkest blacksmith pin points his pounds. Your hands fist, tongue strays, your swallow gone.
B.F.M.
Your elders gloat like lilly pads
on a pond
under sunscreen and broad hats
thousands of miles from their
grown children.
Then the call comes:
“your mother, she fell”;
"your father, has a spot, lump, cough.”
All this is an unexpected thunder storm
carpeting your sun.
You don’t know it yet, but you’ve
just been drafted into the minor leagues
playing for a team plagued by dust storms.
B.F.M.
