THE LEPIDOPTERIST

9 2 Y T H E L E P I D O P T E R I S T M I C H A E L S H E W M A K E R The year before his last divorce, she framed his dearest species – the White Witch, the Atlas, the Clouded-bordered Brindle – matted each in black, and hung them carefully among the portraits on their bedroom wall. To teach herself to love, she read about his practice – examined diagrams, minutiae named. But, when she lay close, he sweat beneath the spread, and, stirring to her heat, he dreamt in grays – of garish wings unfolding to disclose the owlish eyes of the Io: those bright lies burning above their bed. Against the windows, the wild moths bred. She never slept – her gaze unchanged. Are you awake? she often said. ...