BRAIDED STREAMS
17
M O N A R C H M I G R AT I O N On the day of your death one thousand and eighteen migrating butterflies clustered outside a window facing south... I am on a beach in Mexico there are no butterflies, only waves and black rock a few fisherman throwing out their lines ...they roosted for the night outlined by the frame of a window not mine or yours crossed the border flying to Ocampo or Angangueo east of Ciudad Hidalgo in the state of Michoacรกn. I am on a beach in Mexico, the shore too rocky and rough for swimmers. Brown pelicans fly over. A few fishermen pull in their lines, the sun shifts and drops into the sea. Someone with a flashlight hunts for crabs between the rocks a coati drinks the chlorinated water from the pool, stares when I rise to the surface. In a place of the fishermen, violence is not confined to the cities. Swimmers should use extreme caution. On the day of your death I reel in my line, dive into the waves dream there are no butterflies. Photo: Tonja Woelber