The Suicide of Pieris Rapae

From the collection of “Bodily Observations”

The pale, low-hanging butterfly 

Tore a spindly limb from its body

And strums it against the tide’s

Glassy surface for it had no mouth

To sing. It had no lungs to 

Scream.

The frantic butterfly drums

Ripples into its reflection until

The surf swipes up with clawed paws

To shred a wing. It rests its back

On a waterbed. It had no nerves to 

Lacerate.

The moribund butterfly stargazes

While cradled in the reaper’s palm.

A frothy, white wing boils into 

A canopy that envelops Orion

And binds it in a cocoon. It had

No body.