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,
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