On Seeing Damien Hirst’s “Kingdom of the Father”

The butterflies hang grotesque:
House paint obscures the edges,
Black paint licking down their iridescent fur,
These wings like leaves floating in oil.

Each wing maps its own tiny topography.
Forewing and hindwing now inert tectonics where
Small valleys and veins give way to a lifted ridge
Like a rib or an arm bone.
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