Had I the courage

I would let you see my skewered and bloody butterflies
preserved under hermetically sealed panes.
Then you could perhaps understand
why I fear the necromancer, the carnival barker.

Had I the heart of George Sand,
I would pluck the pins out and
release the phantoms through my open mouth.
Then beat the cases to dust with a metal baseball bat.

But by nature I am a curator,
and you,
after all, do not like poetry.