Poem: RIP
By Bree Barton
Once I broke a butterfly.
She flew into my bedroom,
fancied herself safe amidst dolls and books and a colony of
little mice fashioned from seashells and pipe cleaners.
I watched her as she frolicked, floating with wings
outstretched until she fell upon my open palm,
fragile as a flame.
I shredded her golden wings like wet paper.
My father breathed into my ear as he
placed his sweaty hands on mine,
guiding my fingers.
“So beautiful,” he murmured,
and tore.
She flew into my bedroom,
fancied herself safe amidst dolls and books and a colony of
little mice fashioned from seashells and pipe cleaners.
I watched her as she frolicked, floating with wings
outstretched until she fell upon my open palm,
fragile as a flame.
I shredded her golden wings like wet paper.
My father breathed into my ear as he
placed his sweaty hands on mine,
guiding my fingers.
“So beautiful,” he murmured,
and tore.
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