POETRYHe Kills ButterfliesSarah Lilius
He kills butterflies
with bare hands.
Beauty snuffed out
by two swollen bowls
of skin, of callused
and red, always red.
The first time I saw
my eyes welled salty,
my ears imagined
a butterfly scream
delicate as wings
yet terrified.
He has no reason.
I turn to leave
with a flutter of legs
and a graceful show
of curls, of two eyes
tired of watching
the catch, the hard
squeeze and then
the eager look on his face.
Nothing like those wings
midflight on a summer
day, nature’s grandeur,
an insect revered.
I dream of beating wings
and the butterfly
is free.
Sarah Lilius lives in Arlington, VA with her husband and two sons. She is a poet and an assistant editor for ELJ Publications. Some of her publication credits include the Denver Quarterly, Court Green, BlazeVOX, Bluestem, and Hermeneutic Chaos. She is also the author of the chapbook What Becomes Within (ELJ Publications 2014). Her website is sarahlilius.com.
