Rob Merritt

What To Do With Our Wings

You said you wanted to get under my

wing because your life was dissolving.

You did not tell me what you lost,

but you contain your solution.

Our bodies barely

hold our waters.

Women sail into the sea

every twenty eight days,

wax and now, wane,

know a time to break down

and a time to build up.

We wait to see what comes next.

Every year, Monarch butterflies pause

in Angangueo on their migration route.

One settles on a branch,

then thousands,

and the tree bends with color.

They live several months —

Males die first —

with knowledge of the route

dripping from their wings.

You have the power

of Michoacan spring.

Whisk your wings

alive with color;

migrate north

where rivers are born.