Poetry

Butterfly

by Agnieszka Filipek

My father had a collection
of butterflies. First he put
the pin into the thorax, then

on the edges of the wings
and dried each butterfly
in the sun on a piece

of styrofoam. His favourite
was Polyommatus Icarus. One
summer I coloured my hair

blue and became the butterfly
caught in his jar. The lid is closed
on me tightly, a few tiny holes

letting the air in. I’m waiting for
him to straighten me with tweezers
and pin me through the heart.

 

Appeared in Issue Spring '24