Four Poems by Brad Green

Torturing Butterflies

Am I the only one
that’s tortured butterflies?

Surely others have snapped
hard fists at the flutter
and crushed that humming color
in palms, or caught
them in a net’s billowy
slumber, sweeping paths
over a shaken branch.

It’s like you’ve captured
light or hope, some fleeting
thing so rare it’s worth
the terror of the taking.

Never once did I think
of loosening the knot
of the net and freeing
the flood. Never once.

*

Necessary Blood

Morning stuns
the far side

of the window.
My hand spreads

against the pane.
Butterflies crowd

round my burning
palm. What courage

it takes to suffer
the blood necessary

for a fist.

*

Pleasure is a line

Pleasure is a line
so thin it fails
under breath,
and manages to veer
when pressed.

We pause our pursuit
or alter our glance
and gasp when the line
is lost as much as when
it’s gained, I guess.

Best to bate the breath,
venture forth
our inaccurate finger,
the one worn and resolute,
blind perhaps.

*

Beyond the Colors

Grief arrives
to the balloon
of our bodies
like air.

Life forgot
to give us
proper shape,
our excuse

for how
easily we fill.
But we enter
aspiration

like mastodons
of color
urging forth
in fields.

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