Mounting Butterflies

Sera Taino

There was nothing remarkable about the way they died-
The usual love-hate-fight-leave-comeback lovedance,
The comfy dysfunction, the bruises and curses,
The scattered pictures, toys and books,
trappings of some shared yesterday.

But most deaths do not expose such fractured domesticity
Nor lay the burning embers of a humiliating need
To the examination of public opinion
or the tut-tut-tuts of those who always know better.

So goes the reconstruction:
Another rejection, her firm resolve,
His refusal, a chase across the living room,
Flip-flops flung in flimsy flight,

A plea,
A scream,

And three bullets lunged from the metal casing of darkness
Into the soft craniums of blood clots and love knots.

Not just two bodies sprawled on the yellow-tiled floor,
But love desiccated and pinned on its dried back
To be examined, buried, exhumed, and x-rayed
Under the righteous derision against such naked dreams.