Le Papillon Jaune

crying acrimoniously over a faulty Christmas toy,
coming across that sickly butterfly,
lying comatose, in the abandoned garden littered
by soggy rotten leaves and wet finger-like twigs,
quite near the old village cemetery

both her hands were now yellow and as she
wiped her warm tears the color entered her eyes

back in her messy room she put the butterfly
on her bed, playing naively with its wings,
seeking some Christmas merriment in her own way,
stroking inquisitively its four small, very dark circles

a few yellow holes were soon dug in the bed sheet
as she shifted the morbid fly and her thrilled body
why butterfly, she told herself, musing
maybe it was like healthy butter flying when alive

that night it was so black that she couldn’t sleep,
seeing a gargantuan butterfly eating her lips
soon she felt a yellow abyss opening in the bed,
the weight of the butterfly pushing her inside
as her voice was killed by bloody fingers
creeping cruelly all around her parched throat

by Amit Parmessur

Return to Issue 44