The butterflies have turned
to metal, exoskeletons dulled,
soft hairs stiff among the
poinciana, drooping purple
in the heat. Where do the souls
of insects fly to, in this
Jamaican sun? Moisture
beads on leaves of the
hibiscus, glossy in the haze.
Didn’t we revel in butterflies, before
these crying hours, before Obeah,
its malignant magic, left you here?
We watched the monarchs often
at our cold, north lake, mesmerized
until you left to be a stranger in this
hot lush place. Some kind of alchemy
at work here, making metal of
these insects, garish, shabby, crude.
Soon come, they say here, smooth
and sweet, your body pliant in a
bed beside the window without screens.
All fruits ripe now, filament from childhood
snaps. I am detaching with the same
slow motion as the island, I will
soon be gone. I do not tell you the
butterflies have turned to metal,
sharp edged, glinting steel.
Daily Prompt: Smooth
Daily Prompt: Snap
Image: Metal sculpture by Dickmann