The butterfly lands on my hand in an attempt
of curious deconstruction. I stand perfectly still as it explores
my wrist, climbs up my arm curiously, seeking
the source of attraction, some hormonal secretion
or new deodorant that smells like butterfly love.
My daughter watches the butterfly climb to my shoulder
envy in her eyes. She wants a butterfly to want her, too
wonders aloud as the first is joined by a second, a third.
My husband mutters something about my time of the month
and I shush him not because I’m embarrassed
but because I am awash in the magic of it, too
and I don’t need him to spoil it with realism.
Later, my daughter relates the story to her best friend
about how all of the butterflies at the farm
were following me
how I had so many butterflies on me
and how none of them landed on anyone else.
The two little girls stare reverently at me
little worlds of astonishment in their eyes
and for one moment, I feel
as special and amazing as I’ve always wanted to be.