during the months and years
my father lost the pieces to his puzzled mind
he began eating butterflies
pulling at their bodies for the soft meat
unscrewing them at the waist
chewing on the thick underbelly
accepting the bitter taste of the butterfly skin
he’d dismantle their wings without losing a dram of color
scissoring off with his fingers the red and blue wing markings
enjoying only the consistency of the yellow and greens
I would see him in the kitchen gesturing wildly
jesus jesus jesus
his hands knotting under the faucet water
drowning the most colorful butterfly
one by one in a stainless steel bowl
cursing himself and the butterflies that would not hold still