From the Monarch

By Gray Davidson

Go forth now,

For the periwinkle is not green, but blue,

And the flame is red, not the gold of burnished trumpets.

But velvet, I keep for my own, to shroud my wings,

While I seek the egress of this cave.

You do not tell me,

You who know it best,

But since you can,

Fly,

And be heard no more,

In the echoing halls without bound.

This from a woman in a cave by the ocean, who had rainbowed wings like a monarch butterfly. As she spoke, she took hold of the blackness of the night and the wet rocks, and drew it around her wings, hiding them from view.