Entomotaxy

a compound eye

frozen, 

proboscis curled, 

perfectly patterned 

hindwings 

pause 

as a pin is pressed

slowly through 

her thorax,

her breath 

diminishes 

becoming still,

it’s a perfectly 

acceptable kill,

the flutter you feel 

in your heart as 

you lock lips

with the one you love

will never be as poignant 

as the final flutter 

of the butterfly 

as it attempts to rise

from a mounted frame

silently

crying out in pain

realising it will never

fly again,

never 

procreate 

or pollinate, 

it’s a tedious

slow

agonising 

demise

as the lepidopterist’s

position

label 

and itemise 

all the brutally 

murdered 

butterflies

in a perfectly 

presented 

open grave 

hung up on

their wall