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Charity Gingerich (Hopper Poetry Prize winner)

The Afterlife of Lepidoptera

The heart by definition is an agrarian tapestry
with an up-welling brook at its center,
hedges of forsythia, chickens, room for violets.
To believe otherwise is to bolt the fence
in the pasture behind you where the moonlight ends
and the farmer’s prize bull begins;
the heart dies a little every day for lack of tending.

Let’s get back to the business
of milkweed and thistle, joe-pye weed and clover;
when have you last caught a Diana fritillary,
Beloria bellona, black swallowtail or painted lady
for the sheer joy of its wings,
for the experience of learning how they work,
the webs and scales of their flying jewel bodies
in the meadows between two farms—when have you last
stood in such a place, stood still, and not
merely thought of standing there, paper doll
with her paper moon on a backdrop of imaginary
happiness.

Listen, the snow is falling. White roses
filling the air. I believe this is a reminder—
that when death comes it will be our longest moment
of suspension. The air we swim through
thick with the pieces-of-us, not as brokenness
but as an invitation to finally stop;    we’ll build a butterfly,
as if it were a house we could finally live in.

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http://www.hoppermag.org/after-june
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