Hands Fall Like Dying Butterflies

Let’s call this love: the waves folding over your head

like the wings of a tent flap, the suffocating confines

of warm blankets in a morning you don’t remember entering

the heavy arm of a stranger thrown over your chest that won’t let you go.

This, let’s call this last breath: home, the sinking resignation

of concrete boots pulling you across the threshold into the kitchen

the anchors that tie you to the stove, the ballast bags of screaming children

that know who you are and why you’re here

even if you don’t. Here, this place you belong

we’ll draw a circle around it on the map

so you know where you’re supposed to be, a tiny point engulfed

in winged possibility that you will never know, those dreams

will not be allowed to hatch.

There are alarms set to different times all through this house

and your feet know when and where to take you to answer them all.

                                                                       ~Holly Day 

                                                                   Minneapolis, USA

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