A Lone Monarch Beat its Wings

A lone monarch beat its wings in zigzag flight,
Beneath midday sun. Recalling them
In great shimmering clusters at the start or end of
An epic migration on that PBS documentary,
Of all the animal instincts, sexual negotiations
In an insect horde earning my sober, bracing respect.
This one flew alone, above your ashes scattered in
An unkempt lawn. Today you’d be 42, except
You’ll always be 17, come to think of it not a bad
Ending state: your mind never muddied by
University lectures on post-structuralism, never
the humiliation of embarking on adulthood with debts
While fortunate sons with magic lineage
Sweep all aside with the flourish of pen, never had to
Inure yourself one way or another to permanent
Orwellian war and the accompanying patriotic cant
Of foppish Yahoos on far-reaching digital platforms
That never, ever should’ve been entrusted to
Insane societies, never sought distraction or comfort
In hypodermic narco-rush or the arms and flesh
Of whores, never had to doubt all previous logic
And values and assurances upon being informed
We had entered the Anthropocene and even then
Have the pat option to click elsewhere, never had to
Watch decaying brain of mother propel a body
Through the house spitting on the floor and
Shutting all the WWII-era chain-drawn windows
at hot July sundown, stuffy, asphyxiated, coffin house.
But why do I project onto you? Those were all
My highway markers, and no way would they be yours.
You artist! Drawing women with exaggerated asses,
Facing away from the viewer. You never pinned
Butterflies to a board and I doubt you ever would’ve
Read Nabakov. You boiled and bleached the bones
Of dead rodents. A cold, clinical consideration
Of death prepared you for your own,
And I salute you, but I’m leaving
This cluster of dry grass unmowed,
Symbolic shelter for the smaller
Innocent beings of nature.