At the intersection, four lanes of evening traffic
lurch to a stop, while cars at the opposing
light shift into gear,
revving their engines as they wait for the light.
The cyclist stopped ahead of me is anxious
to keep his engine humming,
his cigarette lit. He shares his music with us,
whether we welcome it or not. Just above
the windshield’s glare
I see a pair of orange wings, rowing through
this noxious mix of smog and exhaust.
For this, you ate the poison,
turned milkweed into bulging stripes and
muscle that took you to the top
of some ledge?
For this you slept under the stars, curled
against the wind and rain and turned
your green pulp
into spidery limbs and wings that lift you
even now over this intersection, where
you ride the blast
of a semi’s exhaust? Five o’clock traffic and
everyone on some errand, as if their lives
hang in the balance,
while you attempt another reading of the sun.
Soon I will be in my own kitchen, and you
will be over the cornfields
of Indiana where there will be wild asters and
goldenrod and puddles to drink from
before you settle into a roost.
But first you must leave us behind. How many
evolutionary tricks did it take to bring you
to this crossroads,
knowing exactly where you need to go?
I lose you as traffic inches forward,
but I know where
you are headed—southwest, past parking
lots and supermarkets, toward the
sanctuaries of Mexico.
I hope some child clinging to a grocery cart
will marvel at your bright wings, will see
the wonder of your flight.
Perhaps he will explain in a childish stutter
the miracle he has seen, but by then
you will be long gone.
—
Cathryn Essinger is the author of five books of poetry, most recently The Apricot and the Moon and Wings, or Does the Caterpillar Dream of Flight? both from Dos Madres Press. Her poems have appeared in Poetry, The Southern Review, Ecotone, Terrain.org, About Place, and many other journals. She lives in Troy, Ohio where she raises butterflies.
