Beckett doesn’t want to play butterfly anymore.
He wants to play band. He wants us to wear
our green plastic glasses with bright lights
that flash on the rims. He wants us to sing
about trains. And train tracks. And more train tracks.
Beckett names our two-person band the Sing Bells.
We have three greatest hits. All three feature
me on tambourine and vocals, Beckett
on kazoo and a small brass bell. I want
to make another song about books. Nope,
says Beckett. More train tracks. I think
of butterfly wings. How even the lightest
touch can damage the scales. How
one way to honor what is wild is by
letting it exist exactly as it is.
So the Sing Bells create another song
about train tracks that go all the way
to Beckett’s house. In his smile, I see
wings unfurling. When he leaps
off his stage for dinner, I swear I see him fly.