Desire Path
       

The butterflies pull, oblivious
to where I wasn't willing.

Wandering death-bird,
diminutive echo

of whence we had been gentle.
There was love, I'll give you that

beneath the grass that seethed—
an endless, viceroy affliction.

Now men design machines
that render love

as obsolete—unless
we won't believe it. Take

my hand. What would you do with me
in the unimagined prairie?

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Copyright © 2020 Louise Mathias All rights reserved
from Colorado Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission