Cabbage Patch Molls

Two broad compact lines of Tibetan prayer flags, jigging over fat green mama-bottoms.

Cabbage moths, she said.
No, butterflies, I said.
She, wanting to name them the destroyer.
Me, wanting to gift upon them beauty.

As I move towards them they peel off and ripple away like a kite-tail, a willy-willy lifting a skirt of papers. One is larger than the others and acid yellow, a cocktail lollipop. I want to catch it and lick it, be dusted with a sherbet powder, left holding a tissue paper membrane.