Moth-babies rock the window’s pane
but I see through their translucent bodies at night,
wearing a handful of dirt. It is the pattern
of paisley and unsorted laundry in a basket –
or ice having shattered azure.
Maybe these are butterflies so traumatized by the
Earth, its lackluster cocoon.
I whisper for them to worm inside my bedroom –
jump off the wooden Alps, get in bed
and munch on the hair from my husband’s head
for he is holding still. He is asleep.
They will touch like fairies scraping stars for
their dust, married for three years to a dull glow.
We cannot have opaque babes, oh my life stamped
freckles where lungs are intended to breathe.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 5:22 PM UTC
Moth-babies rock the window’s pane
but I see through their translucent bodies at night,
wearing a handful of dirt. It is the pattern
of paisley and unsorted laundry in a basket –
or ice having shattered azure.
Maybe these are butterflies so traumatized by the
Earth, its lackluster cocoon.
I whisper for them to worm inside my bedroom –
jump off the wooden Alps, get in bed
and munch on the hair from my husband’s head
for he is holding still. He is asleep.
They will touch like fairies scraping stars for
their dust, married for three years to a dull glow.
We cannot have opaque babes, oh my life stamped
freckles where lungs are intended to breathe.
