The Butterfly Effect

When a butterfly on the other side of the world beats its wings,

the air around it, sensitive to unpredictable motion,

ripples like a shaken sheet and might later funnel into a tornado in Kansas.

So what, then, of explosions?

The screams of the injured,

the wails of grief rending the air

on the other side of the world?

Have they caused winds to rise even higher,

up to where the ghosts of the dead are clustered

like smoke? Have they brought about

a tornado of blood?

The air can no longer hear the butterfly,

though it’s beating its wings with an audible snap.

Sails are flapping in a Mexican wind,

all the laundry in Italy is fluttering from clotheslines,

every Chinese child is flying a kite,

but chaos is spreading.

We’re waving our arms, waving

like butterflies.  Goodbye to the soldiers,

goodbye goodbye to the dead—

but we can’t wave fast enough.

No matter how hard we try to get its attention,

the air is listening to bombs.

Charlotte Muse