Poetry: “Untitled” by Luke Iida

And of onerous monarchs with tufted wing,

Amber over chestnut, iced oak, winter’s solace they sing.

Born to languish where their starry sons fly

Born in the very brooks where they are destined to die.

Some explore mesas in sweet mescal mist

Others dance through muddy waters, Mississippi licks.

But past these southland dwellings the monarchs always fly,

To home, to return, to die

To lie within golden tufts of scotch and rye.


And of these flights towards death: we too must make our way

Sculpt the cold indigo sprays of our despair

Into wings, and neither broadway nor primrose

Can hold our beings at bay.

Give to your life its own tufted flights,

And we can bop ditty to Buddy (lay a trey on us, ole money)

Finding time to dance among those amber-ivoor blooms,

For it has always been your place

To lie, to rest, to taste

To languor under spring’s milkweed-honey moons