The Death of a Butterfly

Jack Anderson

We have school tomorrow, Kyle.

I’m sorry to take you back to Wichita

from your family in Chicago. I made Emmalie

take a picture of you and Agnes sleeping

in the backseat. I’ve just smashed a monarch

on 36 highway, and the Sun is fleeting.

Going home for me is Kansas sunsets—

I feel like I’m on the precipice of doom,

like shadows of the Osage dancing in tallgrass

or prairie dogs screaming “hawk”

or gunmen aiming at bison from trains

or Kansas’ indecisiveness about prohibition.

Maybe returning home is standing beside doom.

So what’s the harm in knowing a new city so well

that it runs through your mind like drag racers

humming red leaves on the Boulevard?

Maybe at school we become cowboys from Dodge

waiting for our next change to break

through the plains to bustling Chicago

and its skyscraper sideshow and music,

screeching saxophone players in coffee shops.

Maybe I’ll never leave Kansas, for my family

is separating like an iceberg, spreading

over the bread of America

like ballpark peanuts on concrete.

With Emmalie and her green-haired

smile, your head resting on Agnes’ lap

after two years’ friendship, each of your

faces shine the sunset—divided by a line of clouds,

midnight purple and burnt orange

on the other side. Family awaits

at whichever path I take. Young monarchs

float over construction sites to Mexico.

This family

is in a red Subaru driving South.

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Jack Anderson (he/him) is an MFA Candidate in Poetry at Wichita State University. His work has been previously published in Door=Jar, Mikrokosmos, and Quivira Literary Journal. He told me to tell you that poetry is awesome and should never die. So don't let it. Instagram: @jack.anders0n