Butterflies

by Alannah Taylor

Until that grand unravelling, along those
puckering, pocketed contours, it is all
layers of blood and spleen crusted up on one another
in crystalline collusions of chaste
diffidence, like
the sore kinks around the hips and shoulders of a skeleton
which has been forced to grow
coiled up inside a cupboard.
But when you dredge apart those skin-thin wings,
We’ll see them blustering, spattered with new things.