Iron Butterflies

Daybreak was smeared across the upstairs window
like frosting on a week-old cake.
I woke up with the feel of your august fingers
on my temples, rubbing circles
the way you used to do when I was nervous.
It was comforting but now it haunts me.
Jamie, I'm mad at myself for dreaming of
ghosts in maroon sweaters.

It only means that I'm dwelling on this;
on the shadow that you left behind,
living inside its cold attic chest,
breathing out stale carnations through silvery lungs.

I miss you, Jamie..
I miss the iron butterflies you used to paint
across the still barren walls of our new house
on Olivia Drive.
Those creatures used to resurrect at night and
excite me with
the fluttering of their trans-Atlantic wings.

You laughed when I rolled up the carpet
and suggested we dance on my birthday
after everyone had gone home.
You said I could have anything
and that's what I wanted most;
a private moment with you in my arms
and a song, preferably "You and Me",
playing lazily in the background.
I didn't care how inappropriate
or cliche it was and after awhile,
you said it wasn't so bad,
resting your head on my shoulder.
The tabby perched on the armchair
watched us with quiet boredom as
you nuzzled your face in my neck and
I knew what was going to happen next
but still, I tightened my grip around your waist
when your lips found my mouth.

Jamie, you were a touch of molasses hair and
sharp features standing under the porch light,
then; a sad smile on a hospital bed..
Still, I didn't believe it, didn't
believe your loose grip on my hand
or the muffled words you tried to make me understand in vain
before your body became sedated and
your voice grew farther away.
The nurse gave me your sweater, and
I breathed in the memory of American candy and pine needles.
Jamie, you always talked about driving to Mississippi,
seeing all that green, and how it must resemble paradise.
Remember, too, how you said that
that road would be the perfect spot
to tell someone that they mattered?

Well, here I am, Jamie; with both hands on the wheel,
facing green, yellow and black ahead..
Also, there's a lot of blue out there.
You would've liked that..
But you're not sitting beside me now,
and I'm left with faded pictures of your eyes; teal
and brimming with subtle confidence and Neruda poems.
I let my tears come out of hiding
and descend freely down my cheeks
because you can't take them away from me, Jamie.
I'm allowed to miss you,
to want you here in this hour between a racist
sunset and these beautiful trees;
with moss hanging from them like
wedding veils, coming undone at the seams.

I don't care if it's dumb.
Jamie, I need a minute and
you're just going to have to swallow my fear;
like the way
the washboard sky swallows your name,
whole and sweet.