Nebraska Center for Writers

by Coreen Dwyer Wees

The core of your body is a white sheet twisted tightly
for escape out the bedroom window. Your skin
is the dream of sucking.

Next to you on the bed I whisper, "You are the pupa,
eating the body of yourself the caterpillar,
to create the body of yourself the butterfly."

On the balcony you watch the moon through your telescope.
You search for The Sea of Vapors, The Ocean of Storms,
The Lake of Dreams. Standing next to you I see the swift

black flight of bats, insects melting on their thin
tongues. At 2:00 a.m. you are arranging
the phosphorescent universe of our ceiling.

Lying in bed I see the faint outline
of your body, the glowing tips of your fingers
carefully placing all the moons of Jupiter.

Reprinted with permission
from Midwest Quarterly, Winter 1994
Copyright © 1994
by Coreen Dwyer Wees

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