A butterfly lands on the gravel road, 
and I recall the first time we met for coffee 

at Bohemia and the stranger who told us about a flurry 
of blue butterflies in a tree after his mother died.

We talked about India and your Sanskrit tattoo.  
I liked the cotton scarf cocooned around your neck.

We met for coffee, lunch, coffee, lunch—but never 
touched. You’d disappear for weeks—even 

months—and just when I thought you were gone 
for good, emerge from a chrysalis of silence. 

I stop to catch my breath and watch the butterfly open 
and close its wings as if signaling in code. Yes, no, yes, no.

With wings closed, it almost vanishes like a leaf 
in the road; wings open, it glows 

with iridescent blues and black mantilla fringe. 
Is it a message from my mother? Is she speaking
 
from the other side? I don’t know, but I know 
what she’d say about us: Don’t wait 

for a man to decide if he wants you or not. 
Fly solo. I’m letting you go.