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(For Miriam Aiken)
I dreamt we were bone hunting
in the Sierra Nevada ,
butterfly nets in our back-packs;
your floral scarf from our Swedish mother,
a foil for butterflies—hampered only
by silk’s flip-flop—
yet your scarf randomly laid put
at the nape of your neck,
a yoke, as all beautiful things are.
You had never searched for butterfly bones,
a confessional slip, yet skill armed you
when you lifted your hoop,
lightly swung it down as though
it were a Mourning-cloak’s wing
widening on appetite for air. — O chrysalis
of memory, I’ve made you up. Butterflies
have no bones, not even the wood-like
hind wing, nor femur which holds against
combatant wind. Nor were you, sweet sister,
traveling with me, although you sometimes
occasion my hikes to sky-blue places
where my mind sails in search for you.
We have no Swedish blood either,
although I like to think we Swedes hike a good trail,
spur the stone that rubs us, net the evasive,
which, like my Mourning-cloak, eventually drops,
skippers down the mountain side.