butterflies, methelyne

At night sometimes

she sits ,

on the edge of her window

then fills up a ceramic basin

to wash the dust out of her eyes.

she fills a cup with more water,

honey, lemon and methylene

outside the air smells

 like it did last November

not the last one but the one before.

she switches on all the lights

all the lamps in her little apartment 

pins butterfly wings on the walls, 

next to the letter he wrote her 

a long, long time ago

she remembered how he'd

pull the cockroaches out of his hair

with a comb soaked in white spirit

he wore a velvet jacket, 

tasted like iodine

spoke in litotes, moved around 

the letters of her name 

when the cockroaches were on the ground

they would play a child's game,

he'd pick them up and put them in a box

she'd  catch butterflies, collect their wings

and tie them to their backs, with a knot. 

then, 

he'd sit on the edge of the window,

she'd fill up a basin

and wash his hair in methylene.