Migration; Happy For You

Lauren Lindroth

Migration

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Butterlies,

a myriad of color,

skin my muscles

and tendons

and bone,

while pupa 

grub my brain

at the cancer

termiting its way

through your temple,

sawdusting your spine

and liver

and femurs –

where millimetered,

angry,

invasive

tumors

dangle carrots

to their friends

to proceed forward – 

mob mentality,

swelling

as a drop of milk

o’er painted

watercolor.

My limbs ache

to fly – 

fly to you above

the surf’s whipped cream.

But curdled memory

possesses no trace

of purifying thunder

or chlorine for the pool.

Someone forgot to pasteurize

Memory’s milk – 

expiration date

offending the nose

even as it buries

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Happy For You

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I visited today.
He smelled of sweet milk.
He squirmed strongly.
Six to nine month clothing
for eleven weeks.

I used simple sentences
and fragments that
should've been compound-complex
or complex
at least.
But my words were simple,
plain, and false.

I handed you a crotchet’d
bunny and cap and blankie
that my mom stitched
with each breath
for you
not for me.

I lost my pregnancy.
She grew inside my belly
(I like to think it was a she)
for lucky number thirteen weeks -
But life evaded,
gave me the slip
with only a heated blanket
for the agony.

Oh,
and lyrics to keep me company,
“Just be Held.”
I tried to make it a license plate,
but another’d already stolen it.

It seems I’ve been robbed.

But happy for you.

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into your closeted shirts.

And there’s no recycling

future gallons

yet unfilled

with migrating wings

never to return home.

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