Patiently hunted,

discreetly suffocated,

skillfully spread

and mounted,

you hang here silently

behind glass;

sky-blue and black

the long slender

abdomen,

wings stunningly

veined, Siamese

eyes bulging

shamelessly,

the green thorax

pierced by the pin.

In tiny letters

on the label,

as if you are knowable,

your name.

Anax imperator,

what do I see

when I look at you?

An imperial jewel,

a kind of crucifix,

an empty concept,

a fabulous corpse?

I cannot escape

the impression that you

are holding something back,

breathtakingly,

and waiting.