Chasing monarchs in the milkweed
you say also, also, wanting more.
This is nothing unusual.
Other children in other gardens
are putting noses to horsemint
where bees hum in nectar they’ll turn
to honey. Nothing unusual.
The corpse flower, its purple spathe
an upturned skirt, stinks
of rotting flesh to attract beetles
and flesh flies for another chance
to bloom. I must remember
the dance of strobes in the swarm
of lightning bugs is not innate,
not a trick, as a scientist claimed,
created by our blinking. The flies
copy those around them until they
synchronize. There exists
an explanation. If I forget,
I’ll waste a summer evening
in the silence of a field’s
empty theatre edged by woods,
watching the spectacle
and thinking it’s a showing only
for me. Things die and are
replaced. Also, also.
Clouds pass as voyeurs on our joy
while you chase butterflies
in the garden. If I’m not careful,
I’ll forget to see as ordinary
the long miles the monarchs cover
every autumn to find us. I’ll forget
my indifference that meteorites
blasting the earth’s mantle
carried all our gold here,
that my wedding band
is extraterrestrial. We take in air
through the same passage
we take in water, it’s a wonder
we can still breathe. I do not
tell myself this. If I’m not careful,
I’ll want to do whatever I can
to save everything I see.
This poem is the winner of the 2021 Stanley Kunitz Memorial Prize, an award established by APR to honor the late Stanley Kunitz’s dedication to mentoring poets