Rob Cook·PoetryDropshippingI told the woman I was taping butterflies to the side of her house because I had no other way to get rid of them.I expected the woman to smile but she did not smile. The corners of her lips rose into angry little trenches.I made it clear that I meant I was nervous and that the butterflies were metaphorical. “If the butterflies are metaphorical,why are you sticking those big gobs of real tape all over the side of my very real house?” I mumbled that the butterflies sometimescamouflaged themselves as a species of packing tape. It came out as, “Predators, possibly.” The trenches made their waypast the woman’s nose and over her cheeks and settled into a moat that orbited her brown Israeli eyes.She hired me for one day through the one-day temp agency and fired me after an hour. The newly-minted girl, a one month high schoolgraduate the woman had already been paying off the books for two summers, packed the Chinese vases into their boxes and the universe remainedtidy and neat around her. The vases, tightly secured, would arrive at their destination like untainted children. The chasm between the girl and me and the womancaused my brain’s many mountains to topple and flatten the gullies of my face, which descended like all the confusions of a hand.The woman told me I had to leave. Now. Then she said, “Don’t run into the boxes when you blunder out of here in that hazardousvan of yours.” Bunched together in tight groups of gossip, the hulking boxes waited to be harvested for their fragile internal organs.The woman folded her arms and guided me with her gaze. And from the same firing ledge, the girl did likewise. But first I would have to tapethe world together again with my sticky butterflies. This time, though, I didn’t say it out loud. This time, my car moving like a bug, I leaked none of their identities.