Crush

Crush

The butterfly was dead, laid out on her back in the grass,

suspended on the blades. It was like she was pushed

backwards out a window, wings spread out behind her,

legs bent as though

still desperately trying to cling to the open panes.

Florry took her up and I could see her second

pair of irises, milky yellow swirls circling plum pupils.

I reached one finger to caress her paper

limbs. I wanted to see the alabaster powered on the tip

of a pointer and taste flight. But

before I could glimpse her spread shawl, Florry clenched

his hand, crushed closed. He brought her remains

to his lips, his fingers blooming open and blew

her stained glass shatters into the breeze.

Her core was dragged down, lost beneath the grass.