Butterflies Can Drink Blood Poem

I might have been some marathoner,
bleeding from both feet.
I’d gradually lose use of my vocal cords
from atrophy and high-altitude heat,
communicate with blinking eyes, one, two, three.

I might have been a coroner,
describing rigor mortis to you.
I’d gradually lose use of my vocal cords,
since it was all disgusting and true.
I get back on the ferry at noon.

Butterflies can drink blood
when it’s convenient, but no kindergarteners should
see the thing in real life,
maybe read it in a magazine.
See the thing in real life,
and your scabs begin to scream.
See the thing in real life;
make sure the neighbors shut the door and the screen:
some things are just indecent
except when you have privacy.

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