by Holly Day
If one was not familiar with this part of Kansas, one might suspect
that the women here long for summertime all year long. One might mistake
the gigantic, bright-colored butterflies adorning the faded houses
their wingspans reaching over three feet across at times
as an homage to the real butterflies so rarely seen this far from the countryside
fondly remembered by those who grew up on farms, or old enough to recollect
that once there was not a town here. They might not suspect that the gigantic butterflies
are there to both hide great swaths of peeling exterior paint and as a tribute
to a transmorphic deity who also emerged from a cocoon of flesh
whose name is whispered constantly under breath
by huddled housewives convinced the end is coming any at moment.