Articles/Essays – Volume 49, No. 2
Tropical Butterfly House
As we enter, me and my girl,
the delicate proboscis of her finger
unfurls, hopeful, even expectant.
She is a perfect, peach-soft landing.
An owl butterfly with luminous wings
swoops past, not noticing the nectar
of her pointer aimed at nothing
except Angel Trumpets blowing down
from the glass. We walk in slow circles,
lapping an island of outlandish flowers
where plates of rotten papaya, cantaloupe,
are left out to draw the Lacewings,
Pink Hearts, Swallowtails.
We’re careful our footfalls
don’t crush powdery wings,
the crisp tap of our shoes reassuring.
We know we must go soon. Humidity
weighs as much as the jilt.
By the exit, a blue morpho alights
on a man’s bald head like a hat
at a jaunty tilt. Courteously,
he kneels, and her wispy hair
breezes back from her face,
her breath close enough to graze
an electric spree of scales.