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Spadina Literary Review  —  edition 33 page 11


We Are the Last

by Connie Woodring

Hurry up. Come and copulate with me on this rhododendron flower before it’s too late. I’m not in the mood, I have a headache.
Butterflies don’t get headaches. Please hurry up, this is a matter of life and death. I will, but what was that noise?
That was an oriole that is trying to eat us, but that’s not the worst of it. Everything is out to get us. What are you jabbering on about? I thought you wanted to copulate!
I do, but I think we should be political for just one second.
Okay, so what’s the problem?
We are like all the other insects. We are on the way out.
Because of global warming, climate change. They are going to be the death of us all! Now you sound so un-romantic. How am I supposed to want to copulate with such a party pooper? Okay, I’m done talking and now it’s time for doing. We are the heroes, the warriors, the last of the Mohican butterflies. There is no such thing as a Mohican butterfly.
That’s what I just said.
Okay, hurry up, I have to get back to my favorite lunch — yummy Asian lily pollen.
She just doesn’t get it.