Lunar Last night two golden moths lighted on my window, pressing thin cold wings against its glow. I was folded up in quilt when they were caught off by the breeze thinking about my grandmother whose closets always smelled like antiquated mothballs- stuff to still their wings. Back then my sister and I were small frames of ourselves, just a few pencil scratches on a page. On cold afternoons we tiptoed over the wrinkled carpet and dragged our hands across yellowed hallway walls. We opened doors, hunting old things in a house that seemed Eternal. Moths were only beggars, warming their hands on the porch light cotton mouths searching for a bite of winter coat. Tonight one danced a lunatic circle around a small lamp in someone’s window and I wondered at it, knowing I’d caught its black, shining eyes. -L |