Monarch

It is all so nice, so me:

The needle on vinyl sound of tires

on pavement,

A radio perfect voice explaining a piece

by Schubert,

plowed earth the color of McDonald’s

coffee, one cream / one sugar.

All of it to recompense this road

I’d rather not take,

To make a cloister of my car

against the cotton fields:

white and ripe with unfamiliarity.

Until I kill her,

the dead monarch butterfly

Stuck in my windshield wiper

Wings still flapping with the wind.

Once, my child’s hand held

A newly emerged monarch.

Careful not to touch the soft,

Wet wings. Waiting, imagining

she stayed by choice.

I drive. Knowing

she stays by necessity.

Ready to be home again. Anxious

to remove her body.