Shelley Laughery Scholl
The Butterflies Are In Denial
As we pass another
field of random cows,
we hear another
windshield slap,
mourn another
splattered lapidoptera.
Another butterfly suicide,
according to your Hara-Kiri Hypothesis:
Tiny hang-gliding adrenaline seekers,
reckless and blindfolded, riding the wind;
Mini-martyr kamikaze pilots protesting technology;
small miracles of self-respect,
aware of their terminal genetics.
You are far too romantic on the turnpike.
A funereal flick of the wipers
smears it guts
across the glass,
a pasty film of whitish innards
artfully mingled
with wing-bits and legs.
We made butterflies in second grade,
lopsided tissue paper wings
and pipe cleaner feelers
coiled at the top.
There was no highway on our bulletin board,
just flowers and clouds and sky.
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