Every Winged Thing
Words By Sarah Johnson, Art By ractapopulous
Monarchs, Swallowtails
especially. I always left half exposed,
their silky remains like chipped
porcelain. Chitinous membranes
bled yellow, blue, orange, black
onto my fingers. I carried
their scales in my prints,
made homes for them
with plastic turquoise baskets.
They had tiny beds, cotton balls
for pillows; my Monarchs lasted
longest. On spindly legs
they wobbled from the basket
until I ushered them back;
they tried to fly, even
in the moments before they died
during the night. My father
found the pile of crooked
bodies beneath my bed
and hit me. I had ended many
lives, he said, and then he broke
my net over his knee.