Emerald nailed to the bottom

drawer, I couldn’t save the sheen

of your wing, your leaning belly on the mid-

rib dip of a leaf. Starved ladybugs 

tear your million-years shield. No one will miss 

you. They’re in the butterfly pavilion with stale

citruses, pressing lenses to a pair of male blue Morphos.

One darts at the other to pin him to the floor,

to force him to fly and to fight back. 

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