Power

Butterflies loved my old bedroom.

In summer they wheeled in through open windows

to dance

before desperately seeking

a way out.

There were days when I woke with

paper-thin wings on my face,

bands of butterflies

tiptoeing in with

the morning.

I tried to catch them,

tease them outside,

but they were so easily broken,

so easily crushed and killed.

I had to chase gently,

clasp my fingers together to

trap them,

keep my hands a cave.

Before the release,

I’d always hold the butterfly

for a few extra seconds,

feel its flutter,

the fragile panic.

I could have crushed and killed it,

or gone outside and

released it

into the dandelions,

and knowing I had this power

always made me feel

a bit sick.