As a child,
Collecting butterflies in jars,
Thinking myself kind,
For remembering to punch holes
In the gold top lid,
I would watch for hours as two,
Or, Gods forgive me, Three
Sun-lit folk would batter their wings
To broken hearted "fairy dust".
"Dancing", I thought.
All for me.
As a woman, of course I'm horrified.
Could never consider such atrocities.
Yet still sigh with rose tint nostalgia,
At the death and destruction
One skinny changeling
Rained down on the floral fauna,
At the bottom of her garden.
You see, my tiny bouncy mind
How it felt to be so trapped.
Snatched up by some
Eager, ardent giant,
Dropped into a tight glass coffin.
There to be displayed
For friends and relatives,
Dutiful social butterfly.
Battering smooth walls
To Queendom come.
I didn't understand the slow, smother death
That this, which you call Love, could be.
Didn't feel the peril, lurking beneath,
In my multi-coloured joy of flight.
I had no idea. Then...
And so, you come into my garden.
Searching me out.
Or some other of my kind.
Look at you, man child!
Casting your net far and wide.
Swinging wildly in your rage.
Your right to win your prize,
But although these wings
Are dull and torn,
They still know how to soar.
it's an interesting offer you make..
I hand over the keys to my castle,
For a space on my shelf,
In your jar.
But I think that may be a hard pass.
I think I'll just float on...
And you, Sir...
Can ffffffffffflit right off!!...
Andie McNamara is a Cork based poet who writes on themes such as Relationships, Mother Nature, Mental health, Magic, Coffee and Cats. She's actually quite nice, once you get to know her. She tweets @mcnamara_andie