By day, each drab wing holds a small eye,
a black pupil within.
Its body lay preserved,
deep inside a pillow case.
Through the magnifying glass,
the frayed edge of one wing,
a glimmer of cream, along the other.
I scroll through images
of common varieties:
Cinnabar, Hummingbird, Elephant Hawk-moth.
But mine does not appear anywhere.
Though I change the bed most weeks,
I don’t know how long it’s been there.
I’ve heard that souls return as butterflies,
and that moths are the bearers of knowledge.
At night, its wings reveal
an ivory eye within golden scales.