Mourning Cloak

A battered Mourning Cloak butterfly
came to my bush.
One-half of one wing had gone missing.
It felt so wrong
that something so very beautiful
should be so crippled.

I thought again of my mother
when she was young:
beautiful, flirtatious and fun.
I have seen the photos,
but, as a son,
I knew her only as bitter.

Never satisfied, always angry,
her tight face closed,
most vicious
when I managed success,
especially if defying her threats.

She shredded my wings with her tongue.

I see her now in this cripple,
a Mourning Cloak,
that stopped to feed at my bush,
but when espied must fly
elsewhere to sip a similar nectar.

Once upon a queen,
she could not let herself be a beggar,
nor vent more spleen.