My Body is the poem

The first time I nearly died,
I woke up to my image staring back through the mirror.
Shards of glass crystallising against my feet,
dark stained blood sprouting poppies between my toes.
My arms and legs turning darker tan,
until my body was the ground of a butterfly house.

A tiny butterfly buzzed against my ear,
its frantic wings and blinking eyes tirelessly moving;
calling like a heartbeat for my body to wake up.
Then dangled drunk from apricot juice at my feet,
draped as a peach silk nightdress.

My life dances on top of the earthy surface,
an Atlanta butterfly dips to drink, rests on my palm momentarily.
Whilst a Cardinal Red rips through the air like fire,
and I am no longer drowning in the rock pool but rising
the light from my bones as definite as the moon.
Omen of death incarnate I fly.