i am in the brush, catching skippers
like i used to do in primary school,
pinching their school-bus-yellow
wings between my thumb and index finger.
when i release them, too much of
their being has rubbed off in streaks
of dust and they fall, transparent,
to the soil. glass frogs have it easier—
they can disappear into leaves without
help, without consequence. i heard once
that they do this by stopping their hearts,
dying an infinitesimal death, releasing
their pulse again once the danger has
passed. this is, of course, not possible—
their translucence is achieved by
hiding their red blood cells, and they
can’t do it indefinitely. when the sun
goes down, they must turn opaque
again. i imagine how this moment feels,
the turning point, where color rushes
back through your body and you become
person again, being again, kissed by
moonlight, no longer a perfect extension
of foliage. and then i try to catch the
skippers that burst through my skull
like dandelion seeds, carrying tiny angry
thoughts on their tiny fuzzy wings. i try
to grab them, strip their wings of flight.
i try to stamp them out. i try to stuff all
my red blood cells back into my liver.
i try to stuff my head back into nature
metaphor like an ostrich, head in the
sand, flapping my arms, hoping that
a strong breeze will catch and take me
far, far away from here, off
my dorm room couch and into
some wider sky where all is forgiven.
i try not to let the verse
disintegrate
again.
i try not to write another poem
about you,
but my phone keeps trying
to connect to your speaker,
no matter how many times
i press forget.
Sylva Keefer is a student studying science and poetry in the desert. She enjoys passing time in libraries, watching the night sky, and searching for spadefoots after it rains.