THE BODY OF CHRYSALIS

The pensive woman walks

With a butterfly on her palm,

She says the orange-spotted

Beauty is dead

But I see no torn wings,

The great spangled fritillary

Rests, waiting for the sun

To pump fluid into its wings,

And the smiling woman sets it

On the earth, and a wing stretches.

 

A yellow orb spider injects its

Poison, the speckled butterfly

Shocked, painted lady frozen

In death (its last frantic breath

Blaming me for not saving it),

Its dazzling beauty drained–

Body of Chrysalis, orb baby

Feast served with cricket parts–

Its afterlife skyward and in tales

Told by mourning painted lady cousins.

 

 

 

 

 

This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *