Golden Butterflies

The Golden Butterflies

It starts 

before you touch the door, 

a gilded frequency, 

like a secret with teeth.

You enter, 

and the yellow butterflies 

enter with you, 

a thousand mouths of wanting, 

not beauty, not omen, 

but appetite.

They don’t bite. 

They do worse. 

They cover.

They turn the air into weight, 

a living curtain 

closing around the bed, 

brushing my skin 

with the heat of a fever 

that you call devotion.

But a fire this hot 

changes the physics of a room. 

The closer you press 

with the gravity of your earth, 

the more I draw my light 

into the trees 

and make a wilderness of myself.

You call it longing. 

I recognize possession,

gold held too tightly 

until it bruises.

So, I answer you 

with the silence of the sky, 

and with distance 

that does not explain itself.

In the center 

of the shining swarm, 

I become 

the heart 

that will not melt.

I wrap myself 

in cool black linen, 

and where you try to hold me, 

the sheer heat of your desire 

splits my wings.

And I slip into a dream 

you cannot follow.

Weighted by the fury of the storm, 

I turn away,

choosing the shadow, 

where the raven lives within me, 

and my mercy goes feral, 

holy, 

and out of reach.

 Poetry and Image © Gesso Cocteau

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