warming the migrating butterfly

moon

she said she warmed

the migrating butterfly

on her tongue.

How long had she

to keep her jaw

a wide yawn?
And once

her human heat

into the Monarch vein,

flight was no longer dying.

There seems just enough

of you to fit that way

into me.

My tongue’s

an unfolding fern

a proboscis

to pull you, push

you.  And like echo

and report,

a cantor

and the crowd,

there is no asking.

There is simple receiving.

And we are marvelous

without question.

My skin is warmer

than your dust, and moist.

Can we, so different

transmigrate?  See

the priest who holds the host

up into the glee

of bells does not hear

what whispers

descend

on us. 

But I force you

I suppose,

and ache

when you

do not arrive,

on time or not at all.

And when you do

you are too brief.  And I rely

on the priest

and his white disc

of Christ

glowing on the gold

paten, host he alone can eat

(he’s taken some vow.

do you have a vow?  I’ll take

it...)

I’ll hold out my tongue

like she did

and wait

between that wing

to move you onward,

and the cold stasis

that keeps you

paused,

the dry remains

of you

my proof

of manna's 

transubstantiation.