wear white. bring cash. give up the sticky sidewalk
for a swallowtail to kiss your fingertip with its feet.

ignore the caterpillar who’s attached its body
to the glass. don’t ask how long, or where,
or whether the monarch will ever make it home.

I wanted to wear bugs in my hair like jewels
and emerge in pursuit of a waxy paper bag
of sweet-crusted donuts. I wanted to hear
my mother say pronto pup one more time.

in the butterfly house, I have not become beautiful.
the watermelon isn’t ripe and the four p.m. lights
promise a sunset that never comes. under my skin

is no green chrysalis, just tissue that wants to melt like
cotton candy in my kindergarten hands. it’s time to go.

along the midway, empty sticks splinter
on asphalt like the legs of desperate insects.
knowing better, still, I spread my small arms
into wings. the air is too heavy for even me to fly.