by Avra Margariti
You see, I am out here
while you are in there
but our positions could be reversed
in the flutter of a wing.
The problem with love, dear Monarch
is that it makes blind prophets out of us
knowing our fates yet unable to
prevent our tragedies.
Why I cannot save you, you ask
pinned to your corkboard
full wingspan on display, staring at me
through the smudged windowpane.
An insect more romantic than me
might think it a good way to go,
trapped by your precious side
or slowly wasting away in a bell jar
of my own naivety.
Did I ever tell you I’d fallen
for a spider once?
The ordeal taught me how to fly my way
out of silken, sticky situations;
how to weave escape routes
and never keep still long enough
to meet my doom
even for some pretty thing like you.
Your twelve thousand eyes accuse me
your blur-o’-color wings beating hard
against their unyielding tethers.
Do you hurt yourself hoping I’ll crawl
through the crack in the window
and declare myself your savior?
You have to know I’m not cruel
merely cautious.
I landed on a daisy on my way here.
She helped me understand that indeed I love you,
but I can’t be the winged martyr you seek.
The lepidopterist will be arriving soon
with his magnifying glass and minuscule tongs
to poke and prod, study and admire.
Goodbye for now.
May we meet again in greener meadows, bluer skies our wings faster than their butterfly nets.
Avra Margariti is a queer Social Work undergrad from Greece. She enjoys storytelling in all its forms and writes about diverse identities and experiences. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Vastarien, Asimov’s, Liminality, Arsenika, and other venues. You can find her on twitter @avramargariti.
