Nectar

A yellow butterfly struggled across the forest floor
And the mounds of dirt from our graves. It ignores
The gleaming muzzles and the stillness of us watching,
Dead men eyes zeroing. The fluttering paper of hope
Leaves us and refuses to land where we smell
Like violence and promising blood. Just like that
We were forsaken by all things gorgeous and daylight.

Instead, what we have upon this dirt altar are flies that rub
Hands menacingly and pick up the nuggets of sand.
Their abdomens twitch bright red like blood-suckers
After release. They grow still and flaccid. We can only turn
Away from these carriers of death swerving towards us,
Dreaming of the butterfly that keeps us from rotting like corpses
And the claiming black swarm.