Butterfly World

My mother & I are beneath a mesh dome,

the sunlight running through her curly pik'd hair

like a daughter's hands. Cloudless sulfur's drift

onto our bodies as if we are made of nectar.

"You're so sweet, they can't help but love you,"

my mother tells me. She's flipping through

the Identification Guide, naming

butterflies as they land on

my denim hat and kneecaps.

Peacock Pansy, Tropical Blue Wave,

Cattle Heart, Piano Key...

A sign reads, Don't pick up

dead or damaged butterflies.

We sit beneath Tropical Wisteria,

vines twirling towards the sky like an acrobat

on an aerial hoop. My mother and I have so little time left.

We look up at the forest of butterflies & birds & flowers,

her lipstick smeared across her teeth as we take a photo

together with the disposable camera. There's a butterfly

on her headstone. The wings are open

like it has fallen to the soil mid-flight.

Laura Ohlmann is a Florida poet and an MFA graduate from the University of Central Florida. Her work is forthcoming in The Rumpus and The Lindenwood Review and has appeared in The Maine Review, GASHER, The New Southern Fugitives and others. She enjoys sleeping in her converted Honda Element and biking up mountains with her partner and dog.