When it is day, I do not recognize
this land. We live on
moonlit love and hard water
soaked in oak barrels.
When sunlight takes over
this land, I do not recognize
his hands that
lay me to rest with Strigiformes
and kiss my skin to death
his voice blurs my vision
when it is day, he is
not him
he is a reflection of a
fermented sea I drown in
every night,
when I swim away from this
foreign land I live on.
How can I be certain that you are real?
Each day, you are a noble rider; a sterling chain
seeking my affinity.
I want to cover myself in admission
while you are
straight,
natural,
throwing butterflies. At my feet
they become Ackee centers, flying up, up, around me.
Take a bite!, you say, It is only Vanessa and her Red Wings.
Jamaica made her crazy though, and
you present her plague
to me!?
Do you mistake her as beautiful wings
or
is this MY aberration?
Jamaican fruit do not raise her
butterfly appendages and flutter
about a young,
ripe woman. They don’t!
This is truth or it is fallacy, crossing a frying pan.
And I am preparing to cook either
butterfly
or
poisonous exotic fruit!
maggiemaeijustsaythis 