John Kirby

John Kirby

As a boy, at his aunt’s house, 
His mother visiting with her sister 
Somewhere beyond the gauzy screen, 
Talking, he was sure, shit
About his father, he squatted 
In the humming garden, watching 
A line of ants carrying a monarch 
Butterfly, tiger-lily-like wings 
Engineered to confuse, still alive.
He could have picked it up,
Carried it inside, asked his aunt 
For a Mason jar, punched flared 
Stars in the lid, fed it milkweed
Until it was well enough to set free
In the garden, but he wasn’t that
Kind of boy, which was why
He was squatting there, watching,
While inside his mother was
Telling his aunt she was worried
The boy was just like his father.