Butterfly House

by Amanda Panos

We reached out
our hands to pick
avocadoes hanging hidden,
pregnant, green under waxy leaves.
We rescued ripened
oranges nearly bursting,
juices boiling inside their skin
on our ninety degree August day.
We went to see the cheetahs,
danced in the butterfly house,
kissed in the cool darkness
of the reptile cave. We held
hands watching gorillas groom,
fed nectar to the lorikeets. You told me
about your dead cousin, Myell,
her name the call of a peacock.
Windows down, cigarette in your hand,
we stopped and ate sushi,
popped edamame between our teeth
and you licked green tea
ice cream off my lips.
Sunset colors of deep plum, pink
as the color of your tongue,
layered the sky as you
drove me home,
opened the door of cathedral glass,
and let my hand go.

Published in the 2009 issue of the Lee Review.