Moth

I wrote this for my lovely friend, who once went by "Moth."

~


What is it like to pass as moths do, dying like that?
How does it feel, spent and lying like that?
How would it be to lay, heaving, knowing you once could fly,
but now cannot. How does it feel for a moth to die?
To remember tumbling upwards, high and away,
Now dwindling, fluttering down, where it must stay?
Is it sacred for them; dying I mean, as it is to we?
Do moths everywhere wait, hearts beating, to see?
A lost companion, comrade, lover, child, brother, friend?
Or do they just listlessly, fly on towards their end?
How is it for a moth to lay, twitching in the rain?
Is it a heavy burden? Does the water sting or bring pain?
When their microscopic feathers float away like dust,
Do they feel some sorrow at the loss? They must.
Do they want to tear their wings off on their own?
Angry for not being able to use them to fly home?

...These are the things I think of, sweeping up in the alley at night,
Silvery wings glinting bitterly in the ferocious glare of phosphorus light.
Cigarette ends mingling with shining shards of green glass, my shift ends soon.
I'm crying in the alley... And I'm screaming at the moon.

2007