Monarch

by Terri Metcalfe

In post anaesthetic delirium
I compared my situation to the dead monarch
butterfly that the cat mauled yesterday,
its now pale wings once a cover up
like a pair of white gloves
waving to a crowd of common, small tortoiseshells

Its transparent sheath which once
was an opaque and jewelled robe
spilled the guts of its history across
pavements and green, green lawns
adorned with worker ants
busying themselves to blind jubilance

Saving only the choicest mementos,
in defence of a nest of cocoons
that wait to be birthed into their own
torrential praise, the ants turn soil,
composing the myth of Gloriana
rare as in never truly seen,
endangered as in close to extinct

Although saddened by the death
I wondered where this dull breath came from
a grief for something I did not know,
grief that was as fleeting as the butterfly’s beauty -
all that energy into stained glass perfection
stained glass distortion - a quick
metamorphosis from entrance to exit.