The Edges of Your Jeans’ Pocket

You stole the shirt
from off my back
when we were seven
(when we were seven)
as we played in the field.
 
You caught a butterfly
and pushed a pin
through its head,
slowly, wings beating.
 
Then tacked it to a mat
to peer at under your
Kmart scientist’s special scope
I had said no.
(I had said no).
 
Dinner called us home at dusk.
I shrugged on my grass-stained shirt
and you crumpled the butterfly
into your jeans’ pocket.
 
Your fingers leaving mud
that dried like blood
and crusted like pus
on the edge’s of your jeans’ pocket.