Miss Butterfly is Still Waiting
by Abigail F. Taylor
for her man; lovesick or
perhaps curious of her fate.
Days fade into weeks. months.
years. Life keeps moving
and sometimes the taste is sweet.
Yet time hangs on the tongue
like a sour flavour...mildewed water.
Cherry blossoms melt and grow
melt and grow and --
The tree's spindle fingers etch
secrets onto Miss Butterfly's window
words under words, and
the bed sheets are drawn up to her
old, small chin as she listens.
While she waits.
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