This didn't happen

This fever is bringing me visions that are not true, at least I don’t think they’re true. Things I don’t remember happening but that I’m able to conjure up in a fitful explosion of light and color. When I close my hot eyelids, the image of an eastern tailed blue butterfly, flapping its wings to shake off the wet womb of its cocoon.  It  rests against a felted black background of a display case.  Someone who’s face I don’t recognize whispers to me that we had placed it under glass thinking it was dead – that it was an empty vessel. In the vision it’s late summer, and a butterfly stared emerging from its still living cocoon – not dead after all, growing and sighing underneath the cracking gossamer. The butterfly’s energy and fight for life fogged the glass of the display case, and when we found it fighting, we searched the house for the tiny purple hammer my  mother used to hang photos with, and smashed the glass of the case as gently as we could. It flew away, looking for a more hospitable place to dry its wings, a tree, a shrub, anywhere but in that smashed up display case.

(Image credit here)

(Image credit here)


"... all my lovers were there with me, all my past and futures."

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