by Jeffrey Hermann
It’s late summer and still warm. There’s an over-sweetness in the air–more apples than anyone can eat. The sky is alive with activity, all buzzing and fluttering. I’ve often wondered why butterflies don’t fly straight, so I Googled it: “Butterflies don’t fly straight as a defensive tactic; an erratic flight pattern confuses predators.”
Our daughter is wary about seventh grade. At 13, she resembles most of her female classmates. The white high-top shoes and cropped shirts. Middle school is about survival, someone reminds us. A minefield. There are bodies everywhere. There are tears at the dinner table. She wants to make herself not worth the trouble, to blend into her surroundings. She learns to use mascara in a small mirror by watching videos on her phone, girl after girl elongating their lashes.
When seasons change she adjusts her color, her patterns. She alters her route slightly. We tell her to be herself, but isn’t her world more dangerous than ours? We encourage small acts of bravery, but shouldn’t we cheer her ability to endure, to escape? What are the large dark circles on a butterfly’s wings for? “Ocellus, or eyespots, are large false eyes adapted to intimidate predators, though the mimic is itself afraid.”
Jeffrey Hermann’s poetry and prose has appeared in Okay Donkey, Heavy Feather, UCity Review, Trampset, and other publications. Though less publicized, he finds his work as a father and husband to be rewarding beyond measure.
Emerge Literary Journal 