Sonja Daniels these aren’t butterflies, he said, and raked my insides out to set them free. he plucked the tickle-scratched legs and corduroy wings; they were moths hiding in autumn cloaked in sunset leaves. he picked one out to split between his teeth. he wedged my chest with honeyed bees. this is what i like, he said, heat so stiff i did not recognize the stings. he smoked me out without the veil i could not breathe, traced honeycomb patterns between my knees. he pricked my ears with spider’s legs and gagged my throat with wasps. his salted fingers, soft, caressed, arranged me in a form. be still, he said, and pinned my dying body to the board. my mouth was raw with fire ants, my tongue swollen with stings.
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