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I walk through the door, straight into the kitchen, where
Supper sizzles on the stove.
As I take the bag from the trash, you feed me a chicken-snack.
It burns my mouth slightly.
It’s hard to breathe in this heat –
A thick wet blanket of atmosphere.
“Just wait until winter!” I hear,
So I do and it is and there’s
Saran Wrap on the windows and
A mouse living under the sink.
It will chew through the humane trap,
Leaving me no choice but to kill it.
Its weight in my gloved hand, nauseous,
I will hope its last meal (a healthy dollop of peanut butter)
Was as nice or even more so than a chicken-snack.
I am a moth
but this is not a story about fire.
I am not a tangled metaphor for love
of which I heave myself into blind, wild,
sucked down by honeyed light to burnt
the wings off my own ribboned back.
A paper angel, flint lighter fisted into glow
welding love notes to dark ash, this desire
to feel some caustic heat of another’s life
coalesce into mine, suicidal, nearly sweet,
aside from all the destroying and destroying.
This is not a story about killing’s grace.
Not a story about human hearts wandering
to heaven, tripwiring too close to the sun,
boiling wax groping down my sharp spine,
pearling into hatred. No, I am not another icarus.
I am not a martyr for adoration’s heavy cross,
I am not a lover of the pain, the steep fall,
I am not a creature of flame-gold, hungry for light,
I am not even a harbinger of temptation.
I am a moth
how I disappear in daylight.
How I swarm through darkness’s ebb,
washing up limp, bleached in pools, dead
in wet dreams, some unholy mystic thing
to knife through. I am only found beautiful
when my abdomen is torn open, exposed
to dazzle under glass. I am only real to you
when you turn off the lights, pretend to sleep.
I blend into the scenery, fade into walls ghostlike.
You can’t feel me crawling on your cold shoulder.
My body has eyes, is one vast witness,
scares you with her consciousness, lucidity,
waltzes frantic through the summer nights
seeing faces where there are none at all.
I spread myself thin, camouflage to your arms,
dissolve into tight spaces, I sheath myself
behind stronger things, sit in my starvation,
born without a mouth to cry with, to complain.
I let you get too close, pray the stillness works.
I am a moth
and this is a story about silence.
He’s scared of the dark
unless my feet are touching
the same ground he’s on
Haze settles across the hills
smearing scenes ahead as our van
bobs up and down along US 60.
I ask the kids
what they think about the smoke
slinking over cities and towns
from fires up north.
They are unfazed.
But, then I remember
this has been their whole lives.
In the spring I dream
of a breeze wafting
with the scent
of chives and rain
In the summer I dream
of a storm weighing down
the trees with airs
of mystery and murder
In the fall I dream
of letters, hidden by a lover
under a rock wall made
of moss and dirt
In the winter I dream
of apocalypse, subsuming everything
but the roaches, chewing morsels
of feces and ash
it is said the city never sleeps
but rather it trudges on
through the centuries
as the grey sets in
and the rats gnaw its old bones
spontaneous singing
dubious dance moves
the itchy smell
of pepper, onions and garlic
interwoven with laughter
old time country songs
blistering guitar riffs
emo music and rap
doors slamming open and close
dogs scratching at the door
the novelty
of cell phone dings
now
the dogs have passed
the doors don’t slam
no emo music or rap
cell phone dings
ring loud
bringing news from
far-flung offspring.
