This poem is taken from Stand 225, 18(1) March - May 2020.

Marina Sanchez Lepidoptera

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.
One antenna.

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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