may 10, 2022
pulchritudinous
nate metz
I encountered this word in a poem for the first time
the other day and instantly hated it,
its staleness, how it sounds
like dust-crusted flower petals and stone
pomegranate seeds and a moment
in Santa Cruz last November: wandering
through the long Monarch trails under
California's soft winter sun, air
warmed in the voiceless honey
whispers of hundreds of little honey
wings, and how I couldn’t shake the desire
to snatch the butterflies
out of flight
by the fist-
fill and stuff them
into envelopes
to mail back home to my mother.
How it sounds like the color of crushed butterflies
How it sounds like the bulging envelope’s thickness
How it sounds like my mother’s crumpled smile
as she empties the envelope out onto our
small wooden dining table.