A
Certain Expectation
“A butterfly, Papa!” Ben thrusts,
hand presenting wings lovely but still
His face grows wide in the rear
view mirror, though I am not sure why
He walks in like a praying friar.
We find a sponge, sugar water, slivers of mango
“It’s moving!” he shrieks, as it unfurls
and stretches back to center
He possesses it--the allure, this
thing--his gaze afire at the side show unfolding
Lost in its shamanic hold, whispering
incantations about color about why’s
Lepidoptera Nymphalidae Papilionoidea
Danaini Danaus plexippus
Big brother entomologist
immediately notices and recoils: It has
no head
Having been born beautiful, if
fragile, we also quiver headless, damaged
Our wings feint, then rising with
any hope when blood warms from touch
In the end, susceptible to birds,
headless and palpitating, carried about
With a certain expectation, in
our own hand
Death I can deal with. But what with the wings, dancing
Brightly amongst the mango in the
face of glee?
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