for example, this one time a lit. mag. published me.

House of Gilgamesh

At the butterfly garden, vines and waterfalls, verdant,
A wet heat that sinks through our winter coats

Like grief. The docents guide us along mazed paths,
Past blue wings and gold, owls’ eyes flashing

On the frailest of dry leaves. No touching,
They say. Two monarchs dance among the lilies

Coy as windblown candle flames. She’ll never
Lay the eggs, we’re told, no milkweed awaits them.

She’ll soak them back into her womb like sugar.
And eventually die lovely, float on her back

In the pool like a crumpled orange petal. No
Caterpillars will chew apart this perfect green fog.

At the exit, we check in a mirror for strays. Shrug
rainbows of gauze, feathery legs from our shoulders and spines.

Outside, snow melts steaming on the windowpanes,
Each flake flailing against the glass like a lacewing.