Word Gets Around
A collaboration between Kelli Austin and Rick Christiansen
I don’t know what this means, but it feels auspicious.
Yesterday, a black and blue swallowtail butterfly got trapped inside my porch fluttering all over the screen. I gently trapped it in my hands and set it free. Later that day, I looked out there and there it was again. I know for sure it was the same one because of a small defect on a lower lobe of her wing. Again, I trapped it and set it free.
Today, I was sitting on the porch with my wine and Chihuahuas when a hummingbird moth came in and got trapped inside my screen. I trapped it in a large Solo cup and slid a thin piece of cardstock under it. It was FRANTIC. It only took seconds for me to walk over and set it free. A couple of minutes ago, you guessed it…I was sitting on the porch and here she is again (the moth). I trapped her again, but this time she remained totally calm. I walked to the door and set her free.
I feel like word is out on the streets that there is a porch lady offering a scary but exhilarating experience of catch and release.
Kelli Austin
The swallowtail had chosen
the porch
because of the screen.
A good place, she thought,
to finish things—
hard mesh, enough speed,
a little determination.
Then the woman appeared.
Two hands descended,
closed carefully around her wings
and carried her back into the world.
Goddammit.
She waited an hour
and tried again.
Same porch.
Same screen.
Same woman.
By evening she was back
among the trumpet vine,
one lower wing nicked,
alive against her better judgment.
The next day
a hummingbird moth gave it a shot.
She had heard about the porch
with the screen,
the woman drinking wine,
the two little dogs.
What she hadn’t heard
was how fast the woman could move.
A red Solo cup came down
like judgment.
Cardboard slid beneath her feet.
The moth beat herself senseless
against the plastic
all the way to the door.
Outside again.
Shit.
She returned after dark.
This time when the cup descended
she didn’t struggle.
She waited for the paper,
the lifting,
the unbearable tenderness
of being carried back to safety.
Word gets around.
By morning the trumpet vine
was full of them—
moths, swallowtails,
a beetle considering his options,
all complaining about the woman
with the ridiculous dogs
who stands between them
and oblivion.
Nobody knows why.
Some think she’s cruel.
The swallowtail,
opening and closing
her damaged wing,
says don’t waste your time
with the screen.
She’s watching.
And she’s quick.
Rick Christiansen
About the Authors: Kelli Austin is a Kansas City enthusiast who looks for those little moments that bring joy. Her current obsession is front porch sitting and playing witness to everyday life in Brookside. When Kelli isn’t writing, she can be found walking her two Chihuahuas or sipping an iced matcha latte with cold horchata foam at her local coffee shop.
Rick Christiansen is the author of Bone Fragments and Not a Hero, both from Spartan Press, and the forthcoming Observations from the Well from Sheila-Na-Gig Books. His work has appeared in North American Review, RHINO, The Lake, Thimble Literary Magazine, and elsewhere. He lives in Kansas City with his wife Kim and their dog B.
Image Credit: William Wood Thackara Equites Achivi Machaon Swallowtail (1820-1839) Public domain image courtesy of Artvee
