On the Uses of Butterfly Wings

This morning, I thought I saw a butterfly trapped between the indoor and outdoor glass of our sliding door. I heard the featherlight tapping of its wings and drew back the curtain, watching it struggle, trying to escape. It left smears of gold, black, orange, and red where its wings made contact with the glass, painting itself onto the surface, truly giving of itself for art. Or fear. Or both. I wondered how it felt - trapped but being able to see everything around it.

The dust made me think of makeup. I imagined:

A thousand Madames Butterfly, painted with wingdust, frozen butterflies in their hair, wings attached to jewelry, to masks, living butterflies attached to a finger or wrist by spidersilk - pets on leashes. The ladies were seated in a small theater, all red and gold and orange and black. On the stage, a butterfly collector stood in front of a lab table. Behind him, slides flashed; close-ups of wings, straw-mouths, shiny black eyes, a chrysalis.

A macroscopic camera fed a video image to the center wall behind the performer. It towered above him, a square of moving light ten feet on each side.

Beneath the lens, the scientist held newly acquired specimens from his collection. A Luna Moth. A giant Monarch. A Painted Lady. A Buckeye. A Mourning Cloak. He would spread each wing, careful not to damage the surface, careful not to paint his fingers. And then he would mount the specimen.

In the audience, each time the man took a needle and speared it through the body, the ladies would gasp, sigh, moan, shake, shiver. I watched as a lone woman in the front row, eyes watery and face flushed, licked her lips in the flicker-light and dug her fingernails into the palm of her hand.

I looked down from a box seat, wrapped in glass. I tapped on the front window but no one looked. The show went on without interruption.