Poet: Antony Dunn

He’d like to unfold her from that lab-coat
and see what kind of creature she’d become;

chalk up a finger on a butterfly-wing
and lay out his great design on white silk –

a dress for her to wear weightlessness in;
or dust his fingerprints across her skin

in kohl and carmine; or see, as she moves
through the store-room, the cases fly open

and every last butterfly unhook itself
and throw itself into the air, and stay.

He’d like the creature cocooned in his chest
to stop turning over – to burst from his mouth

on unspeakable wings. He’d like to say something
that she’d understand, but can’t pin it down.