by Erin Homan
I’ll teach you to catch butterflies on your tongue;
hold them in the pit of your stomach to boil,
until their melodies become mute and unsung,
your feet will detach from black soil.
Hold desire in the pit of your stomach to boil;
I’ll teach you to burn regret on your tongue,
bury secrets and sins beneath black soil,
pull off the wings of melodies past sung.
Stand fast in your convictions planted in black soil;
listen to the enchanted melodies the birds have sung,
keep moving to numb the blister of boil,
will you teach your children to catch butterflies with tongues?
