“.. 8-year-old Vladimir brought a butterfly to his cell as a gift.”
                                                                            New York Times, Jan. 25, 2011

Echoes dart off walls like lizards,
off snuff-colored floors—

It was a melody of sickening hues and a prison
guard’s pock-marked face. Mother brought larkspur

and chamomile. My gift was a white cabbage
butterfly, preserved. You praised

its proper labeling, the delicate pinning
of its water-white wings. Pale fire
 
of twig veins, those slender wonders! Your black
trousers droop. You are thinner since last

September’s visit. Belts and suspenders
forbidden, I thread my index fingers

through the loops, pulling your dark pants up
playfully. We recite Shakespeare in English,

Baudelaire in French. Our arrogance
is a hot delicious borsht! It enrages the squid-eyed

guard. He plods six-feet closer; his spittle
dripping on the long pine table. Father,

no time to talk about our Borzoi’s injured
paw. Nothing about her quiet whining, slow

licking. We are ousted from Kresly Prison. The sky
fills with industrial smoke, grey hardening of sleet.