Butterfly Wings

By Jane Liu

I have always been fascinated with butterflies: their ephemeral incandescence and natural metamorphosis astounds me.

Across cultures and regions, butterflies are symbols of hope and change. In New York City, there are few butterflies of the sort captured by glossy magazines, but the many revolutions emblazoned across monochromatic newsprint serve in their stead.

When
A revolution begins,
No gunshot marks the start
It begins with soundless wings
Sugarspun wings that bear a coming hurricane
Holding aloft a body close to death
Eggs are laid and discarded by the starved founders
Days later, perhaps one egg cracks
The inching body munches on young leaves
While an eagerly watching audience, gap-toothed
And knee-skinned, shudders in raw anticipation. 

When
A revolution gains momentum,
No one believes that it can survive, not even
You, the caretaker and the scientist
You tuck the curled thumb-sized flesh
Into a soft white prison first
A loose netted pavilion, or a cold glass conservatory
To keep it safe and sheltered
You control the temperature and fetch sustenance
You bring pills and water because you're scared
It looks so delicate; it is delicate.

When
A revolution finds itself caged, you feel sorry 
The revolution is supposed to be wild and free
Did you take it home and welcome it into your life?
No. You stole it and lied, saying
It couldn't have survived without you
You know it'll leave 
You want to pet it; you can't
Because the chrysalis is shaking slightly with the breeze
It can be a hurricane, and a tide, and a quake.
It is all that, and more. 

When
A revolution breathes in those first
Struggling breaths, it is so easily defeated
Those breaths are butterfly scales
You can't touch, you can't approach the glass
The revolution is fragile and delicate
The organism has
All of the colors and none of the substance. 

When
A revolution's growth shudders
Like an infant's soft skull, the exoskeleton of the revolution
Has to knit together; needs a nurturer 
And a protector and a fighter until
The chrysalis split open, and the revolution
Leaves its former home, the casing, to shrivel and dry.

When
A revolution finds its footing
On slender hairy legs
It isn't just for you any longer
It's for a world, for the cruel universe of people
Who would not be this gentle. 

When
A revolution lights the thin membranes, 
Of its forewing and its hindwing
They have not frayed or torn
The veins are narrow and sure
The cells sprouting from the base in
Striped black and orange are glistening
With mucus and new life
That's when the revolution takes flight. 

When 
A revolution launches itself into the air 
It swallows up the sun and
Stars and earth and all the space
In between; the empty spaces and the
Full spaces; the places that wound and 
The ones that throb
A revolution captures all
In a vibrant net of lines and curves
That flows from the base of a sweeping wing, 
And the cycle begins anew.