The butterfly’s broken
wings fall to the ground, landing
in my pile of oily compost—waiting
to be repurposed.
I bet the creature wishes,
in its last moments that it could crawl
into a cocoon again, and save itself.
I bury the Monarch and watch as the soil stirs red.
New hair follicles bloom
in place of the silky estrogen
garden on my stomach. My throat aches
at the thought of digging up the growth—or maybe
that’s just my larynx stretching.
The Tributary 