apostrophe to blue, BY JACOB BUTLETT

I hold you between my teeth like a blueberry,
               squeeze your sweet breath across my tongue.

I want to wear your forget-me-not blooms,
               your kingfisher plumage. Your late autumn

skies lay draped in dusk. Your Morning Glory
               sigh rises like a jay molting in a birdbath

bathed in nimbus clouds. Across the street,
               emperor butterflies glide over a laughter

of chapel bells. A balmy breeze. A saunter
               of leaves. Gossamer scarves wave at the moon.

But you do sometimes reek like burning
               ash stuffed in my ears. Your sea slug eyes

slobber freezing rain. Your gas fire fingers
               claw at my flesh. Your undertow chokes

a sunken swimmer. You sit on a stranded
               child’s fontanel in winter. Far away, moonlit

tears blink like constellations on icy lakes,
               depths devouring all light, all life.

Then the sun returns, wearing a halo of larkspur.
               ​Your shimmer rests over my breast— 

your anemone hide, your starflower heart.

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Jacob Butlett is an aspiring gay poet with a B.A. in Creative Writing. His work has been published in several journals, including The MacGuffin, Rabid Oak, Ghost City Review, Lunch Ticket, Into the Void, and plain china. In 2018, he received a Pushcart Prize nomination for his poem “The Hail.”