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.