Mouths like scissors:
the Emperor feasts on dung, the Hairstreak is torn mid-flight,
the Fritillary lays her eggs near violets that may not survive the mower,
the Swallowtail, phlox-skimming priestess of joy,
dies in the chrysalis’s womb
if a parasitic wasp has her way.

Entropy isn’t just decline: it’s appetite,
the asking price of beauty.

And you, there in the park, trying not to be spoken to
by grief in a human form —
you watch the butterflies.

Despair? Of course. The system eats its saints.
But don’t let that stop you from counting wings.
Let’s mourn it properly, shall we?
I could offer a stanza, a stone, a litany.
Or would you rather scream into the maw with me?

She’s always the last to come to the call,

That old red muley cow,

I’ve walked the field all morning to look for her,

But there she stands, back with the herd now.

She’s sure some more kind of cow,

She marches to her own drum,

She chews her cud, and watches me,

As she stands so wise and dumb.

All the tricks in the book, they are known by her,

And she uses them every one,

When the herd comes in for counting,

You can bet you’ll find her gone.

How old is she?

I’m not rightly sure, I know she has got some age,

She was born right here, on this here farm,

Her number’s on the 13th page.

She’s as likely to come at you, as to go the other way,

Don’t reckon I’ve ever seen her sick,

And seems like she’s scared of hay.

But she’s always fat and slick.

She’s ill enough, I’ll tell you,

To put the stock dogs up a tree,

Why back last April, in the chutes it was,

She laid both hind heels to me.

She’ll play at being midwife,

When the heifers start to calve,

She’ll stand close by and watch ‘em,

Then lead ‘em back up the path.

And woe to anyone, what gets too close,

I’m tellin’ you, man or beast,

She’ll come with head down and bellerin’,

If they’re smart they’ll take their leave.

I’ve watched her run a coyote,

Right through a wove wire fence,

And I reckon he’s still runnin’

For you know, I ain’t seen him since.

Her ma, she was a red limousine,

Of her that’s all I can say,

And her pa, he was the neighbor’s bull,

A big one-eyed charolais.

Now, her, I’ll tell you true,

Though I know you’re gonna laugh,

The only reason that she’s still here,

Is she always throws a calf.

Note: “muley” refers to a cow with no horns. It’s a term believed to have come from Irish Gaelic “Moiley” meaning to lack horns or to be bald.

The straw-hollow coleus bones shot

I.
Sunlight threads through tulip cloth.
Felted door hums with welcome.
Purple glass bends over plates,
grape-leaf chairs hold dinner’s truth.
Steam and silver pass between—
hands that stirred and fed with grace.
Every meal a quiet rite.
Every laugh, a planted seed.

II.
Artichokes bow under palms.
Blooms emerge like sudden crowns.
Iris blinks from corner beds,
bottlebrush flames by the glass.
North wall rows of careful red—
grandpa warns of webs beneath.
We still steal the sweetest fruit.
We still heed the myth of fangs.

III.
Lipstick scrawled across new walls—
soft rebellion, brightly smeared.
Even saints must raise their voice.
Even peace can burn a while.
Firelogs wait in brown paper.
Matches long as hope strike gold.
Heat becomes a family hymn.
Even ashes hum of love.

IV.
He naps in the evening hum,
paper tented on his chest.
Game plays low, a second breath.
I become his steady tide.
In that hush I learn the shape
of a life that asks for rest.
Stillness drapes us both like wool.
Even silence pulls me close.

V.
Wet cement receives our hands.
Stone records the shape of joy.
Letters soften, moss will come,
but those prints will not be lost.
Small chairs scatter on the deck,
mustard smears on smiling lips.
Smoke from grills and summer grass—
a feast to remember us.

VI.
The canal held secret war.
We believed the ships could hide.
Fingers laced with someone’s hand
taught me trust before the tide.
Dust and dusk held every step.
Wind rehearsed our whispered games.
Some beliefs outlive their use—
some still bloom when we return.

VII.
Now I walk the edge of age,
still becoming who I am.
The house remains in the sun,
still, the tulips stitch me whole.
When I pass the garden beds,
I can smell her gentle thread.
Love survives in scent and soil.
The past remains, not behind.

With soft lines and hues

Gloria Thomas sketches my portrait

I look like a Polish revolutionary.

You are, Charles Whittington says.

vape pen, sunglasses
with broken stems, shopping bag
blown across the sand,
random wave-tossed bits of trash,
plastic presence of people

is Tuesday
I suspect this choice furrows your brow
let me explain

at 5am I hear the chunk  whinge  whir
this mechanical displacement of collections unneeded
giant claws mouthing these neighbored contents into its hang dog maw
in winter  the handlers  like dark skirting ants travel by foot darting alongside
summer sees  full neon splendor
this small touch of humanity  the structural reminder of systems  our intelligent world
outside my front door

It gets better when one can’t remember
the you that you were before dementia, 
winter fires set with diseased ash timber,
iced tea sipped while admiring the river,

the gardens you tended over the years,
the woman you carried one life to next,
tennis shoes flung onto telephone wires
hanging there like ghosts through the cold and wet 

seasons, bottles uncorked, balls kicked and thrown,
insect bites, high school heroes, jobs, and pets,
hydrangea bushes pruned, weeds whacked, yards mown, 
full-bellied moon, the Sonoran sunsets,

all the shallow wrongs you did to others,
lost in that dense fog, hope-starved, smothered.