The Moth

Later when the moon’s sand illuminates

night-whipped palm trees, streetlight

interstices cut in glass, the morning’s full-size

mirror not yet warm where we have rested,

not quite outside of memory, but faroff

with meaning, we lay in punishing silence.

I wish I were close as all the hands of cool air

that fan your naked back, as the blanket

you kick at that then skirts down your leg.

I remember the sound your dress made as it fell.

Your body now an instrument folded under

my arm. Night of brass, of string, and timpani.

Now a knot in the whorl of my brain loosens.

The clock on holiday. So many months carrying

votives to the confessional. Now I am the chalk

on the wings of a moth. You’ve touched upon

a story, a disguise. Even now I know it won’t be

long before you pull at the sugar of another’s kiss.

Reviews

[Kristina Moulaison]

Are you kidding me G...is this not published somewhere? "we lay in punishing silence" ... "Your body now an instrument folded under my arm"...the way you weave sacred imagery with intimacy, acknowledging their sameness...the visuals you conjure with "so many moths carrying votives to the confessional" and that you incorporate sound and taste...this is beautiful language that reflects the powerful, fragile connections between people, the isolation and longing left in the wake when they are gone. Love!