Aspurged

There is a butterfly lying in this puddle,
underwater flutters dulled by ripples of breeze
so that passers-by don't recognise
the fragile mystery inside a watery cage.

Mottled patterns pulse outwards in perfect mirror images
which do nothing but amuse the grass. And me.
A tea party breaks out nearby
but they are ambivalent towards suffering.

The butterfly must listen, but I,
I hide my ears amongst the simple bracken
as the clatter of cutlery, the screech of fine china;
the disturbing murmur of conversation penetrates the atmosphere.

Wings convulse, antennae twitch and stretch,
I ease open a paupiere to see faint bubbles annihilate themselves
atop the shimmering film of water.
Meanwhile the butterfly thrashes in millimetres.

The guests invade further and further,
Armed with teaspoons and tongues they tear up the air
and blur the outlines of plants and dewdrops,
which cling uselessly to their shapes, gasping and sighing.

I feel nausea and sleep rush into my intestines,
twisting at my liver and lungs and drowning my brain,
tempting the toxins to emerge and dance and play.
My chest flutters, my lips quiver, and I slump; hidden.

When the dizzy world shudders into view there are no guests,
no tables or chairs or teacups or sugar bowls or milk jugs,
no screeches, no groans, no hysterical laughter or murmurs-
the ground is stunned to silence, an elected mute.

I raise my aching body and turn my eyes towards the puddle.
It has become a tiny glacier, little sugar crystals and porcelain cracks
have flung themselves all over the surface.
Beneath; empty, numb, and completely still, lies an amputee.