The first thing I did was open the spine, soft papery resistance,
and set the pane aside, no streaky interference.
I needed to see through everything for the death of a butterfly.
The frame is heavy gold, fading in the urgency of a thrift store with second, third life promises
and paint worn enough to make you believe in something once beautiful.
Held out in front of me to confront reality at its edges of forced geometry.
The chronic imposition of humans, fitting everything into boxes
—conditional shapes and nothing fits.
I’m taking deep breaths wondering what’s looking back in liminal,
lay me out exposed for as long as I can bear.
Between the frame, hoping to fill the ornate adoration of heavy wood
and the death of something that no longer suits me.