04-03-2018, 04:16 AM
Butterflies, Suicide Bombs, and Paradox
I planned to kill my grandfather
on Thursday, before I remembered
the futility of days, these grains of sand,
to mark time in an hourglass,
or spread across an endless beach.
Why choose one from another? It didn’t matter
that I never knew him. He was only
an urn on my mother’s mantle.
It wasn’t until I’d found the photo
at the butterfly exhibit. She on his shoulders,
a Blue Morpho spinning on her outstretched finger—
a music box ballerina placed by the hand of God.
This curiosity became an opportunity.
if one crushed insect on my Friday
could be a hurricane, than what were a thousand
on their Thursday? That my grandfather was there
simply meant I could never be
caught.
I planned to kill my grandfather
on Thursday, before I remembered
the futility of days, these grains of sand,
to mark time in an hourglass,
or spread across an endless beach.
Why choose one from another? It didn’t matter
that I never knew him. He was only
an urn on my mother’s mantle.
It wasn’t until I’d found the photo
at the butterfly exhibit. She on his shoulders,
a Blue Morpho spinning on her outstretched finger—
a music box ballerina placed by the hand of God.
This curiosity became an opportunity.
if one crushed insect on my Friday
could be a hurricane, than what were a thousand
on their Thursday? That my grandfather was there
simply meant I could never be
caught.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson