Worried, I loosed
a thousand
black butterflies
inside the dark
of my worry,
which, it turns
out, is in my belly.
I know because
of the fluttering there,
the fritillary battering
of my gut with dark
aimless wings.
I brought the mass of them
mushroom hunting and
a while saw nothing
—
no fungi, no flowers,
not even the children
who hung on me.
And then I asked myself
what is here? And
aprons of chanterelles
began to appear. And
orange butterflies. Pink
queen’s crown blooming
on succulent leaves.
Spruce trees. The scent
of autumn in the yellowing
corn lilies. There were
no black butterflies anywhere.
What is real? I asked
the woman who is me,
and she said nothing
but bent over, intent
on tasting a tiny, wild strawberry.