Little Mutable
Houston Museum of Natural Science
After the dark narrow tunnel has yielded us
up, we enter the great crystal chamber—three-
storied flicker and loft, harp-strung in sun—
into waver of shadowlace, green swerve
of palm twining lush spiral ginger, habitat
for the fantastic—
and they appear, reappear,
hosts of butterflies flare through the damp
press of air, sheltered by intricate glass,
by skeletal struts holding the outer world
at bay.
Within, fluting shimmer—Rice Paper,
Blue Clipper, Red Peacock—little mutable
flames, they glide leaf to leaf as we, briefly
let off from treatment, stunned quiet
by cancer,
glide in luxurious light, afloat
in paradise, new-drunk on pink flowerspike,
on corpse flower’s purple-ruffed splay, on
sheer color, sky-swath and caramel camouflage
blooming the air where we’ve been permitted
back into the garden.
For one breath, two, a Blue
Morpho’s deep gleam lights, holds, on your folded-up
sleeve. Our guide murmurs psyche, soul, its resting,
its—might we say blessing—and I wish
stay O stay—
but we have our return appointments,
must pass back again through the dark—
this, only this: a radiance
still seems to cling to your sleeve—