this boy was different
he didn’t chase butterflies
w/ a terrible net
& pin them in an album
pressed beneath plastic
or gaze at them
dead things
under a glass
but rather he’d gather
the pieces
of a torn butterfly
& sit quietly
his meticulous fingers
shifting unfixed wings
lining up spots here
& joining veins there
fastening the parts
together again
& suddenly they’d flutter
& fly from his palms
to perch another day
upon a flower
or a bough
mended wings
slowly folding
& unfolding
like a slim, grateful
jumpstarted heart
