The gilded butterfly
found its way to my breast
and nested above my heart.
She fluttered her wings
and with each small pump of air
I felt her breathe life
into my withered lungs,
for I have seen the insides of factories
and tenement buildings and I
breathed in the soot and ash.

I watched you toil and burn
to make the butterfly’s wings,
golden and smelling of milk and honey,
her wings bright and hollow.
She sits on my breast
and when I close my eyes,
I can feel what it is like
to fly, to be free.