Wasps and Moths
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I want butterflies
tattooed on my skin.
I want their wings to enter
the folds on my skin
and cover
my elbows
and finger creases
and kiss the corner
of my joints
with cool ink
and butterfly tongues.
No trace of the feeble cocoon.
Only imprints
of the imprinted wings
that frighten wasps and moths
and keep the world still.
Hushed.
Like a muffled lullaby
A stranger sings
into the belly of your
Mother
As she carries you
Feeding through a bodily tube
That delivers nutrients a la carte
like cool ranch dressing
to your baby tongue.
You’ll remember their words someday,
clear as a storm cloud,
and thank the next
stranger you meet
in a metallic bar
hosting pyrite faces
for the whispering voices
outside the walls
of the world
you’ve yet to come into.
And for speaking poetry
at such an inopportune
And beautiful
Moment.