I wear my hair in a knot on the top of my head, a wooden moth hair clip holding it in place, locusts earrings I bought to remember Jess, and an antler around my neck. My vest is moss woven with fiddleheads and forsythia. I have tightly cropped bark pants and pretend I can fly. I am the mother butterfly, Beezus tells me. I demand the children go collect nectar for our meals. Thor creates the cauldron with loose stones. I feed them nectar smoothies until they are giggling and flying away again. It is just pretend, but it feels real. I see my wings scorched and darkened from flying too close to the sun. The girls giggle and beg of me, "Oh, Mommy Butterfly, what should we do next?"
Perhaps I just have a normal case of spring fever, hormones coursing through my body reminding me of that carnality, that impulse of Spring. It turns me into a butterfly mama, or the 100 yard stare remembering a blanket and an orchard and a boy without any other goal than a blanket in an orchard.
There is a Picasso exhibit. I am with a large man, almost twice my size. He has no hair, except a mustache. He doesn't have much of a neck. It has become part of his shoulders. But there is something about him I find irresistible. We are kissing. His head is so large, it dwarfs me. It eclipses my head. His lips cover my lips. It is sloppy, and makes me squirm. I feel swallowed by him, but I am more powerful after the kiss and a little drunk. I wonder if I am dreaming of a Greek god. The God of Log Throwing, or Yoke pulling.
We drive away. To a train station. There is snow and ice. He is laughing, a big belly laugh, and I kiss him. My truck spins off the road. The large man whispers, "Nothing will happen to you. Breathe." He has an accent of undisclosed origin. It is much sexier than his kiss, but then again, anything is. I try to be fine, but I am frightened of the truck being ruined, and my husband being disappointed in me. Disappointed by the large man I am kissing and the accident it caused.
I dream wildly without abandon. I am sexy there, bawdy, ballsy. But when I follow through, lay a man with no neck, he is boring, and breathes through his mouth. I am afraid at the freebie of a dream.
I have insomnia on the full moons. I always seem to write then. I call them by their proper name as though it will banish them from my sleep. The Snow Moon. The Storm Moon. The Worm Moon. I whisper it, count the stars. The full moon was six days ago now, but I am still awake too late. I tire easily in the afternoons and when I drift off, it is always like this, adventures and crashes and Picasso and kissing strange gods on icy streets.
And then butterfly kisses wake me, reminding me of my whole truck and long-necked husband.
What sorts of things are you dreaming of these days? Any spring fever in your, ahem, parts?