There is a woman who saves butterflies with broken wings.
It takes just five minutes. Not as absurd
As it sounds.
I imagine her fixing brown to blue
Or blue to orange, or any other hue
Will suffice as long as it fits and
Madam Butterfly is fit to fly.
With symmetry lost, she becomes a nameless breed-
No more a monarch or cardinal or any such thing.
A Frankenstein’s monster,
Held together with faith and glue,
Deformed but functional, still a true
Butterfly, sipping the nectar to begin anew.
Just a little more fragile, a little stiffer perhaps.
Are her wings any heavier?
It is hard to tell;
She cannot feel her brokenness.
Cannot see her unevenness,
For her nature is to fly.