Butterfly season. The small lilac
fluttering about the buddleia,
the cabbage white weaving between
laurel leaves, and the mahogany
with spotted black irises for wings
circling above the patio; circling above my cat’s
olive eyes. His body curved in silent wait,
claws curled for capture. Whilst their gossamer wings
wilt in collapsible softness;
death dust crumbling
between my fingers. I am a saviour
too human and unkind with hardened,
lived-in skin.
Butterfly season. His jaws crushing
life quietly, a gentle snapping
of teeth and tongue. A shadowy
plaything, antennae reaching for a sky,
darkening, before swallowing
the mahogany whole; a distant honey.
Perhaps, this is poetry. A predatory wait
before the consumption of flight,
leaving a half-emptiness growing
in my stomach, never satisfied.
Poem: © Kristiana Reed 2020
My poetry collections:
