BUTTERFLY OUT OF THE COCOON LOOKING FOR GOD
My long and desperate sleep is over.
No more subterranean dreams about constellations.
Darkness slowly unravels and the stars see me shining
as if the sky is carefully untying its ribbons and bows
to stand naked and present beside me.
Everything has been turned inside out.
I open my eyes to speak.
I open my mouth to see.
I am neither worm nor angel:
stretching toward a higher place inside me and beginning to rise
on a breeze that feels like a hurricane holding its breath.
Anything could happen next.
All or nothing.
I am a fluttering brushstroke of seasons,
a water-colored apostrophe in search of the sentence,
or just one word,
how I got these stained-glass wings
and why I feel the pattern of your
fingerprints dusted all over them.
The one thing I do know is this:
Your touch is the only way I fly.