Dreaming of Tuesday’s Parties

Dreaming of Tuesday’s

parties, glorious rippling

colors, all manner of

food and gaiety, strangers with

strange stories, big ridiculous hats,

cacophony of singing,

and drunkenness, lots of it

spinning, hours disappearing

under the weight of the night

and slow dancing whispers,

all versions of us

unwilling to believe in a

dawning Wednesday.

i am Nabokov’s butterfly

paper thin wings grow in fantastic colors
behind my shoulder blades.
eye spots deepen on the tops of each
and wink when i fly.

settling quietly on a leaf in a forest in old Russia

there is a sudden net upon me,
Nabokov! oh how he
drains my life, pins down my wings …
and with quiet precision,
i am immortal.