i’ve never seen the deep sleep of monarch butterflies
but I can imagine
the taste of their relief in the eucalyptus grove
the slow nectar of thawing winter,
a rare ice wine steeped with pine needles instead of champagne
at the end of passport control
the pollen is a confetti of stars
only ancestors know the exhaustion of butterflies
3,000 miles crossed to reach their winter bed
four generations lost, four generations of wings
coins of stained-glass
to mark the tolls, the border stops, the layovers in cold airports
there are always things lost in a move
the back of an earring, a creased recipe, a tiffin of spices you will later replace in a
supermarket aisle, the name slipped sideways, the spice soul-muted.
the new creatures never saw the recipe or tasted taja from the old bazaar
but the flavor lives behind their milkteeth
even with wings amniotic damp and crimped tight like a newborn’s fist
the butterflies remember to crave milkweed
deep in their thin bellies
the secret alchemy of ambrosia to poison
enough to ward off the jackdaws and square-pupiled lizards
their wings an orange caution:
I am not to be devoured, they say
Children of exile are used to this
We know to toss salt over our shoulders
To turn our pockets inside out in banana groves
To place kajal behind our ears to ward off evil eyes
To walk quietly or lose money
Alchemy remembered, superstition to sign
To ward off the police, the creditors, the children on the playground:
I am not to be devoured, we say
Newly wakened monarchs always know where home is
This is the secret of exoduses
sun compasses, azimuthal angles of light
the hidden sinew of butterfly clocks, set for spring
or, I think, inherited maps
On their wings, the language of immigrants
Many, but not all, things are lost in a move
Behind my eyes, landscapes I haven’t seen
Hooked in my jaw, the silhouettes of stories
Sewn to my dreams, the whirring of tongues
Jointing my bones, milk myths
There are tales I lap up on a curled tongue
Their flavors craved, from birth,
Like milkweed
Poison to jackdaws who shout — go home —
My mouth cannot hold more than one language
So they are lost
With the back of an earring and someone’s necklace clasp, the tiffin of spices, that old
photo taken by what’s-her-name, wing dust the color of saffron
But I remember a dialect I cannot speak,
Look
Here, printed on the arches of my heart
Split like a monarch’s wings
Look close—
I will always know the way back home
(Editors’ Note: “deep sleep” is read by Joy Piedmont on the Uncanny Magazine Podcast, Episode 34B.)
© 2020 Roshani Chokshi
