Butterflies

Butterflies pinned under glass
seem backward.
Like women's beauty,
admired or exploited,
but never contained.
It slips through sieves
falling like dust on entables
wiped away by decaying wombs.
They were wrong,
these wombs don't wander,
but twitch on their hinges
or sit like stones,
like discontented weight,
creeping out from under the glass
to flutter barefoot in syrupy air
waiting to be consumed
by stickiness and time.

- By Heather Wallace

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