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Stillborn Butterfly.
you stay there bottled up inside your transparent chrysalis
and rot in amber fields of sealed caskets weighed
down with honey.
the dead still eat the sickly sweet in large, greedy
handfuls, and i only
eat when i'm told. i watch you each day attracting other
insects. do you feel them sticking to your warm, summer
confinement?
you begin to ooze
out of delicate cracks, stillborn and goopy like tar.
the air is thick with thousands of wings
and i starve regardless when i realize how
close you were to flying to true paradise.
