Death of butterfly.

To eat off legumes
because you’ll bury them

mother in this winter
your heart’s pseudonym 
was Madame Butterfly
the earth in this way
whores on blood letters of the roots
my flowers will always leave

death of butterfly
I’m murdering shame
if I had it
it’s now gone; our hands
menstruate a real death in you
I hunt for something better.

My want is the cherub lips
of violet
her lips sweeter than the lamb
you could cut into it
a crèche of roses
in your hands;

Cut off the line
it’s not my song to sing
to the young moon; earth
eats our feet, the legumes die
as I buried them
I never did know a want well.

© 2021 All Rights Reserved

Written 6/2/2021 for this week’s Earthweal prompt.

10 thoughts on “Death of butterfly.”

  1. Grief grows through and over time: the butterfly is enwombed in a hard dark place and must maul itself free. Language so blooded flexes transformation’s wing, passes over, through ‘Tis an earthcraft, for sure …. So great to see you at earthweal, Lucy. – Brendan

    Liked by 2 people

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