Epiphany

We caught a butterfly
with nets once in Mamma's
tiny garden enclosure. Only,
wires became tangled together.
Ugly mesh, stifling
oblivion.

I convinced myself it had turned
into silken
fairy dust.
I would not look
at remnants of this
corpse. But he cradled it,
cried, till I kicked him hard
on his shin. I kicked him, till
he stopped.

One dried butterfly
drew etches on a chalkboard.
That day, we knew.
We were here on earth
for a while.

Rubaiyat Khan is a new poet.