The last days of farming: I find my parents’ wedding album in the trash where my mother had thrown it away, bound in a tattered cream cover. I salvage it. At the farm, I engage in third instar biological warfare. Bacillus Thuringiensis sprayed on all the crops. A photo of my dad in an all white 3-piece tux. My mother in her wedding dress, a deep v neckline with a thick border showcasing a pearl necklace. A gradient of beautiful innards. Butterflies must have deposited their tiny beads of children, their eggs, on our crops weeks ago. Now, fat great white southern butterfly larvae have hidden themselves away, growing into thick, green pinky fingers. Flipping through the photo album, I see myself in the rough texture of my father’s pores. His large nose and tan skin. The way his shoulders rise, his neck descending in laughter as he walks into the reception. Terror among the squash. The caterpillars darken on the brassicas where they had migrated. The bacteria colonize their guts, forming crystals, immobilizing their digestion and shredding them all from the inside out. A photo with an ancient water stain on my father’s cheek: he and mom laugh through the driver window of a car as they leave their wedding. I move wobbler lines in the far fields. I see a monarch butterfly near the Port-a-Potty with a ravaged wing and cannot bring myself to mercy kill it. Maybe it will be able to fly, to lay eggs or fertilize them still. My father holds my mother’s chin between his thumb and index, cupping her face. They smile. I find caterpillars lying where they died, curled in death throes. I roll their stiff forms around in my hand. They tend to fall apart. The next day, I return to move the wobblers again. A photo: my mother and father walking down the aisle. The monarch lies in the field struggling, thrashing, unable to fly. I bend down to pick it up gently in my hand. My father wears patent leather shoes, arctic white. My mother’s dress, like a snow drift, the shoulders small puffs of fabric with delicate roses woven along the peak of the shoulder hem. They are so young and beautiful, the same age I am now. I hold the monarch caged in my hand, trying to decide whether I can bring myself to kill it or not. I have killed so much else and felt no guilt, no shame. The butterfly thrashes, wriggles out from beneath my finger, and leaps, its mangled wing unfurled. It has been decades, but in this photo my parents kiss in front of the chapel. My mother holds a bouquet of conifer sprigs and white lilies. I watch the monarch sail micro eddies and columns of air in abrupt, beautiful arcs out past the crops and along the sugar sand, but I don’t chase it. I cannot let myself go there. It hasn’t shown itself, but I see the end’s head buried there, dozing in the wastes of the glinting sun.