corrected me if I mistook a tamarin for a marmoset

as I held your hand on the zoo’s path.

You, who studied Tanganyika’s cichlids at 8,

you, mesmerized by coral’s synchronized spawn.

What was it we said

at the entrance to the butterfly garden?

Did we tell you to keep your hands to yourself?

Be gentle with these creatures who can lose

but never regrow scales required for flying?

What made you, future scientist, think

we warned you of a power

only you possessed–the curse

that would ground all butterflies?

For years, we lived in ignorance,

your eyes closed tight, your grimace,

the way you pulled your arms in tight,

when a Monarch or Swallowtail

approached.

Now, in your lab

as you unwind genes,

fill the gaps left by failed

curiosity, in your fever dreams

where you imagine samples

spoiling next to your too-warm body

I wonder if you feel the shadow

of that time when you imagined

yourself the only one–

as if we don’t all have

the power to destroy, as if

we are not all terrified.