i saw the butterfly--

i saw the butterfly--
the safe metaphor
full of florious
heaven and all promise
posing its questions
at the edge of
things--i trade it
for a cake pan--
round--the artistry
of your church work--
your fervent prayer--
your poetry there
at the beginning
of things.
i remember
being in the
other room
with you--
playing with
the caskets.
i was there
picking out
the stuff--
not picking
out any stuff.
i played with
your white comb,
with the gilded
edge, the gold
hairbrush and white
bristles. did you
let me play
with your
hair?