by Lisa Roullard
You arrived: leaf-like, designed—
black sparked across yellow.
A study in thin.
One black tail broken off.
Abdomen crumpled
like tea-stained paper.
Was there storm at the end?
Do you recall
drifting?
Veins arrange your wings
into cells. Ash-velvet borders.
Places I could be locked in.
Clever gadget of air,
your legs’ six tools
repeat exactly. Help me.
Help me while the air
is still here. I’m trying to break
out. Or in.
Lisa Roullard‘s poetry has appeared in various magazines, including Brain, Child; New Orleans Review; and Literal Latte. In 2013 she won the Utah Original Writing Competition for poetry. As often as possible she walks in the rain.
Hawaii Pacific Review 
Thank you for a good comparison. Your advice helped me a lot.