• Vol. 09
  • Chapter 04
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Really? she said as her helicopter eyes batted the birds away.
You think you’re blue?
Look into my eyes for a fragile myth,
a fairy tale, all powdered wings
and wigs and charming lips. Come,
let us play cards in the butterfly house.
The loser gets to keep all the nectar,
each shining honeyed drop of it – lickable, exquisite.
The winner gets to fly if they’re lucky,
if they’re one of the charmed ones, if the wind
doesn’t batter them in great blowsy drifts
to a hurricane the other side of nowhere.
Tell me, are you azure, cobalt or indigo?
Are you the Hanged Man or the Hierophant?
Do you taste like sugared damsons,
all glisten and promise? Will you read
me my sky-blue future in a glass cup of butterflies?