Dear Kate

stuck on molecules, I crack

the spine of a newborn

book. It’s quiet now,

moths pinging soft

off lamps, discarded tissues.

 

The body of the moth is shorter and stouter

than that of the butterfly.

Some moths cannot eat, for they have no mouths.

Once, while I slept, two moths took shelter in my dress,

left hanging overnight to dry.

 

in the morning I’ll pick wings out of the carpet

and think of you

the box of your jaw, how you cocked your hip

in the teacher’s lounge, your mouth parts

painted scarlet, the downy fold of

eyebrows like apostrophes

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