you are counting the times
that you make the trip.
you fly between the garden
and your spaceship,
worried you will be thrown back
to chrysalis for taking too many sips
(as though you could wear out the welcome
on the invitation to that flower bed).
don’t pace yourself.
beat tiny wings.
soon, they turn to holes.
if you feel embarrassment,
if you flush with sin
(for you still rush in as you always did!
– ocean glistening off the skin; an insect believes she’s full of feathers … or fins,
ready for love in waves…)
just don’t cry when the tides rush in,
knowing well they’ll fall away.
you will be so smashed –
wings pressed to sand
or caught in light or dustpan
mistaken for a wasp or common moth,
not a bird at all then…
not a myth…
but you went out alive,
spread out in color ‘till you died
…threw everything you had at what you wanted
…stole away all the honey faerie story
you could find.