The garden remembers…ghosts of butterflies at night among the thorns, slipping through my fingers, bleeding beetle juice scabbing over hinges of my mind’s jawbone and paragraphs left asunder. Trapped inside a mason jar, humming with the madness of forgotten radio stations. My laugh frozen in the attic dust, the exact pitch of glass breaking. Mom never swept the corners right, but she knew how to disappear between sentences, and I found god coming through the rye and he like the way the moon licked my bones and the ink. Ghosts of butterflies.