All morning wed been discussing death. I checked the field guide to know it was the Spicebush Swallowtail that landed in my hair and not the Mourning Cloak. Maybe I'm superstitious, but it was the same day I learned about families in Ireland, their sweaters patterned to identify sons and husbandseach unique stitchin case they drowned, a map of where to send the body. We passed a garden of calla lilies. The Mourning Cloak rested, wings the color of storms, yellow lining the edges of waves, blue crescent moons sailing to the rim. And I wondered if this is what the fishermen saw, the ones who were pulled underocean moving forward, slice of moon to the East, bubbles of breath pulling upward where sun should have been.© Kelli Russell Agodon
Previously published in The Adirondack Review