The butterfly jar

She lies in beauty, and there,

alone,

she’ll sleep.

Preserved as a broken shard of glass,

drops of formaldehyde clinging, pearly,

to pale skin.

Confined in frigid glass, contained in silky sheets,

withheld from the world:

in beauty, there is loneliness,

away from life or death.

May she be frozen for eternity,

may the beauty never fade, may she never slacken,

never age, never see the toils of the world.

Let love’s tender curses never burn her eyes,

let beauty see no other.