Butterfly Soup

Sharon's

BUTTERFLY SOUP

YOUR LAUGHTER ROLLS OFF YOUR TONGUE
EACH NOTE, REVEALING THE XYLOPHONE
RESIDING IN YOUR SUPPLE SMILE.
AND YOU PAT ME ON THE BACK,
SO BRISKLY, AND SURE
AND FEED ME BUTTERFLY SOUP.

YOU STRUM YOUR INVISIBLE GUITAR,
AND DREAM OF YESTERDAY
WHEN YOU ONCE AT BUTTERFLY SOUP.
THE SMOKE OF CIGARETTE
COILS WITH THE TINSLE IN YOUR HAIR,
AND REFLECTS THE SPECKS
OF TARNISHED GOLD, IN YOUR EYES.

WE CUT CHILDREN OUT OF PAPER,
AND WATCH THEM DANCE.
OH, HOW THEY CAN DANCE, YOU SAY
THOSE PAPER BOYS, AND PAPER GIRLS
NEARLY AS THIN, AS THE SMOKE,
THAT INHABITS THE AIR.
THEY DANCE TO THE SOUND OF THE XIALAPHONE
AND THE INVISIBLE GUITAR.

I SIP MY SOUP.
IT IS BLAND, BUT YOU ASSURE ME
ITS BETTER THIS WAY.
YOU SEE, YOU SAY, IT GROWS BAND WITH AGE,
BUT YOU NEVER WANT TOO MUCH SPICE,
IN YOUR BUTTERFLY SOUP.
IF IT'S BLAND, YOU CAN FINISH THE WHOLE BOWL

LEAVING NO PUNGENT GULP
THAT REMAINS, ONLY TO GROW COLD.

SO I FINISH MY BOWL
AND YOU PAT ME ON THE BACK,
SO BRISKLY AND SURE.
THE XYLOPHONE SOUNDS
AND THE LAST RAYS OF DAY REFLECT THE TINSEL
IN YOUR HAIR,
WARMING THE FACES OF THE DANCING BABES.
AND AS I WALK OUT THE DOOR,
THE SUN SETS UPON MY BOWL,
OF BUTTERFLY SOUP.

Domenica Fiorentino