in summer the butterflies emerge



          henna pulled the drawer open; the room was dark 
except for a small, focused desk lamp, which cast her 
reflection in the glass window.  the drawer was filled with 
butterflies, preserved and pinned, wing-open, in glass boxes.  she 
inspected them, running her fingertips across the cases, casting 
her small shadow over those souvenirs, freeze-framed in their 
moments of violent death.
          she lifted one, a wild spray of blue and black 
spots on its wings, as if colored by nature in a frenzy.  holding 
it close to her heart, she felt--  
                              SMASH! her cheek burned, liquid
steel rushing through her veins.  she blinked, and stumbled across  
the persian carpet, "You fucking bitch, you worthless whore!"  
following her.  
                               --"god no, no," henna cried.  She  
smashed the butterfly box to the desktop, but it did not  
break.  Screaming, she threw it against the window, scarring 
her reflection before it dropped
                                  under the desk.


          Marset asked, "I'm visiting the mall on Saturday, will you 
     come?"  
          Henna took a sip from her teacup, "No, I haven't got the
     time."
          "What else will you do?  I know you, since the divorce, 
     you don't do anything."
          "I'd like to rage like firehounds and bring his bitten
     head to my plate."
          "Pardon me?" Marsy said, absently; she had heard 
     these wild statements before.  
          "I feel like Cerberus cheated, Marsy."  
          "I won't see you on Saturday, then?"  Marset looked
     to her handbag.  
          "I'm afraid not."
          Marset embraced her.  "Then, I'll see you next
     week.  And I'll bring that lemon coat you were 
     looking at so keenly before."  


          Henna was hanging her washed underwear, thinking of
canine jaws, when the scent of fresh laundry tossed her into--  
                                   He was caressing her under   
her skirt, wet clothes in the laundry room, stroking her   
into wetness as well.  He kissed her, and pressed against 
her arched back.  she let him lay her 
down on the chill concrete and ride her body -- back and forth; 
she felt like a ship in a summer's day, sailing strongly on the 
sea's rhythms, safe as she let the currents carry 
her ...  
          she stood in the department store, staring at a  
pale yellow dress, the color he loved best for her: "It  
makes you look so delicate, like a butterfly."  she wanted
to rip that dress off the rack and claw it apart, but she couldn't.
instead, she went home, opened her closet, and started 
cutting her own clothes.  hours later, the shreds covered 
her carpet, and she felt clean, so clean -- 
                                             and empty ...  

          saturday morning, henna wrote carefully on a beige  
notecard, "my life is fluctuating between a pale yellow and a
deep violet," and signed her name.  she placed the card next to her 
egg cup on the breakfast table, and gracefully opened the 
fourteenth-story bay window; she stepped
out.


     --jennifer crystal chien