Treatment
Ange Mlinko

We went to the vivarium—to see
the tropical butterflies in a
walk-through biodome. They were
cocooning, their insides filled
with meconium. The chrysalises looked
like jade and rosy quartz pendants
for ladies' ears—with gold worked in,
something Babylonian.
Enormous specimens
breathed against tree bark.

Belated naturalists we.
I kept repeating to myself:
the mind is not a little spa.
The Mind is not a little Spa.
You can't retreat to its imaginary
standard distance
when outside construction
can't be told from ruin.
The butterflies set themselves
down like easels
on bromeliads, but their brushes
can't reach to scratch their
palette