SAILING LEPIDOPTERA
All morning we had been discussing death.
I checked the field guide to know
that it was the Spicebush Swallowtail that landed
in my hair and not the Mourning Cloak.
Maybe I'm superstitious,
but it was the same day I learned about families
in Ireland, their unique sweaters patterned to identify
sons and husbands -- each unique stitch -- in case
they drowned, a map of where to send the body.
We passed a garden of calla lilies.
The Mourning Cloak rested, wings
the color of storms, yellow lining the edges
of waves, blue crescent moons
sailing to the rim,
and I wondered if this is what the fishermen saw,
the ones who were pulled under -- ocean
moving forward, slice of moon in the East,
bubbles of breath pulling upward
where sun should have been.
Kelli Russell Agodon
THE HALF-MOON COUPLE
after the lithograph by Marc Chagall
While I am two parts: hands
and veil, you are mostly suit.
Somehow, there is enough sage
between us, sticks of lavender, stems
of this canoe. Forget that I am drawn
out of troubles, that love
anchors itself to certain beds. I am praying
for a paler sun, a simple wedding
band without stars, longer arms to pull you
close.
The moon holds us in its boat
again and again; I will forgive,
you will apologize and night
won't seem as bad as when we both sleep
in our own half-rooms, half-lives,
our half-joys illuminating only part of the sky.
Kelli Russell Agodon
