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.