i didn’t realize the window was open

until the moths began. i put the moth

in smother, i think, & look to my phone

for an extinction plan. moths upon

moths upon the walls. the bed, a blanket

of moths. eyelashes blinking with

their powdered wing song,my hair

a courtly wig of clapping white. i brush

the bodies from my phone to see

if he’s sent a message. sad little portal.

my shirt breathing heavily upon

my chest, a living garment, thousands

of small dependents, tiny ligaments,

knee hinges. some moth caterpillars

dig holes in the ground where they live

until they’re ready to no longer be children.

remember that story shye told us in

the woods near tacoma? i don’t either.

something about moths tho: an origin myth:

they have no color because once

they were made in a colorless world

or maybe once they were vibrant

until no one touched them & they grew

anguished & pale in the absence. no matter.

the proboscises are tonguing my neck,

searching for whatever sweet’s left.

mother’s number shines up from under

the little bodies. she’s worried about me.

that’s sweet. i swipe her voice into

the room, say i’m fine, as, you guessed it,

a wedding procession of moths flood in:

moth trailing flowers, moth with a flask

in his jacket pocket, child moth with

a ring on a little red pillow, father of

the moth, sister of the moth, blushing

moth in a white white dress.