All I see is flutter and flower. Forgive me 
for not recognizing the distinction 
between Monarch and Viceroy, sovereign 
or sovereign surrogate. But the wanderer 
butterfly is already a murmur and a sigh, 

and trees forget the weight 
of all those wings. Just think of branches 
without whispers. I used to find the blind spot 
behind those compound eyes, my shadow 
swept back as a cloak, then pinch 

the closed wingtips to feel that struggle 
to escape. Scales of color stained 
my fingertips before I let go. How many 
years did I think I could fly with those 
stolen hues? How long have I hurt 

the beauty I touched? No matter how 
many times I’ve been told a viceroy 
has a distinguishing stripe, I see 
only stripes of orange. Even now, 
when those fragile fliers stop to crown 

any golden flower, they are all the same to me. 
I should recognize the subtle difference. 
My lover tells me they are physical 
manifestations of souls, frail pieces of spirit 
matter migrating to Heaven. 

David B. Prather

is the author of We Were Birds (Main Street Rag Publishing, 2019), and has two poetry collections forthcoming: Bending Light with Bare Hands (Fernwood Press), and Shouting at an Empty House (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions). His work has appeared in many publications, including Prairie Schooner, Poet Lore, Potomac Review, Comstock Review, Sheila-Na-Gig, and others. He lives in Parkersburg, WV.

More on the Web: By, About, and Beyond

⚡ Two Poems by David B. Prather in River Heron Review (Issue 3.1, February 2020): “To Haunt America” and “Contrapuntal”

⚡ Two Poems by Prather in Still: The Journal (Issue 37, Fall 2021): “If a Tree Falls in the Forest” and “Humidity”