Glass Poetry Press

Volume Two Issue Three

Anne Champion


Your eyes, after I told you that you were the only man I'd slept with and cared for in a long time, reminded me — as I watched your lids shut and open reluctantly, I remembered the quiet surrender of a butterfly to my net when I was a child. After the wild flutter, came the calm descent until it rested, poised, a frozen panic, and finally shut its wings, collapsing into flatness. Later, as the delicate wings cracked under the pins in my album, I stopped loving.