Mag Gabbert

I used to love a boy
who wrote graffiti

iced tea
rooms filled with paintings

when I got sick
my mom would buy me
a butterfly cocoon
hung from a stick
cradled on another one
that looked like a wishbone

after a week or so
the butterfly would hatch
and I'd let it go

snow days
nail polish
stories
with predictable endings
like waking up from a dream
into a dream

I love knowing
that some species
of moths live off the tears
of larger animals
that no two lions
share the same
pattern of whiskers

I love the way the lion cubs
hide among the rocks
I love their whole
and heavy eyes
their bodies kneeling
at their meat

these days the boy
who wrote graffiti
is a tattoo artist

he gave me a red poppy
beneath my arm
and last week
he got married

I used to love wedding
dresses with lace sleeves

I used to want
to let a cheetah eat me
as a demonstration
of how much I loved them

I used to want to
be on a SWAT team
or be a mother
by age thirty

I used to own
a little pink
sculpture that looked
like chewed gum
it might have been
my favorite possession

I love gum
love the way it turns
beneath my tongue