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  • Brooke Miller

A Mother's Touch



And perhaps, sometimes,

the white butterflies

that have followed me around for

the past two months

appear to me as moths.


Fighting for a chance at light,

stepping on my skin,

and kneading me into the ground,

despite their feathered touch.


Do you send me butterflies

because I told you

“Can I get wings behind my ear

on my nineteenth birthday?”

not knowing it would be the last

birthday gift you’d ever give.


How do I tell you now

that I want your favorite flower there instead?

Lavender carved into my skin forever,

trying to grasp that ink could possibly replace

a mother’s touch.


These garden butterflies

now crawl under my skin and flutter;

although I wait for them to dance around me

when I find the courage to see the sun.


I’ve been waiting for the soil I stand on to cave in.

For the mirror to crack when

I see a daughter

without a mother.


It is one thing to be haunted by loss.


It is another to share a soul,

feel them flutter up against you.



-a mothers touch



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Art by Amelia Randolph

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