Brunch Sonnet 3
As for the butterflies, I dismiss them. I can’t love
well a thing I can’t hold on to—the petting hand,
the elbow slung around the neck in jest, the shoulder
grab, the single finger poke. To touch is to attach—
at the very least there’s cells of mine left on her shirt
or on his bottle that I handed him. As in every poem,
“she” and “he” are every man and woman that I’ve known,
though I won’t know everyone forever, and it’s come to
my attention that I have a choice regarding who it is
that gets to stay. I will or won’t continue in the patterns
that I’ve made. The butterflies will have their way; they’ll
land or skitter off into a better set of petals, and I will
move to touch those in close proximity, using words
or polka-dotted feathers, using what I have at hand.