by Lori Lasseter Hamilton
Flying from kudzu and pine,
trees leaning over the green
with knots rotting like elders’ capped knees,
you, Luna, escape green ropes,
tangled snakes choking my neck.
Post-nightshift, she visits me
fluttering, paper heart hovering
near porch light.
Lime green Luna, giant of all moths
near apartment’s edge
of overgrown pine.
March into September, six months into pandemic,
Roman moon queen emerges to gift me
with light this September night.
This night, like so many September eves,
morphing, destroying me.
One September night I was raped.
Now Roman goddess flies near porch light,
paper kite landing on lunch bag,
junk food I’ve lugged home to drown despair in,
sweet tea and chocolate a paper heart’s comfort.
As my moon queen flies goodbye, fluorescent green she
lights the night
like lightning bugs ten-year-old me would stand in nighttime driveway for,
fingers catching fire in jar.
To guide me, but I was already home –
rare, precious, transient home
like paper plane center creased in 4 th grade.
“Butterfly in the sky, I can go twice as high”
crooning jubilation to me from ‘80s TV.
Home the place to den pose, arms akimbo.
Cocoon for phoenix feathers to become butterfly wings,
with purple-white eyes so I could eye myself fly
as I let go of everything,
a crinkly kite glued to silk string
wound tight, circulation to fingertips cut,
blood unflown.
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