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The butterfly doesn’t know where she is in her thousand-mile migration

When the monarch can finally trust herself
to look, she sees nothing but bright motion
down there, a billiant heave, spinning shelf
on spinning shelf, the tons of pouring ocean.

And one island. She plummets down to calm
on dune grass, her stomach filled with a bright mob
of eggs, her wings a brilliant stab at finding them
(please God) someplace to hatch, her brain a-throb

with greedy hope. But oh, the sky’s a rile
of wind against her, yowling and enraged.
If she could pray, she’d say—clinging, clinging—

I’m tired, God. You watch t