Moths fly toward burning bulbs not because they’re drunk
with love or exhausted from flight, wanting to wait out
the pain in their wings, as if waiting was something warm
they could wrap themselves around. They fly and die
simply because they cannot see what we see.
Instead they see stars off in the distance, the same stars
we long ago used to navigate the darkness
we still know nothing about. It’s hard to imagine
what we once needed to know to know where we were.
Without depth, with color, the moths look to the light
until it calls to them. We are good at thinking we can stay.
We are good at finding hurt. I live in a mapped city
that keeps expanding like regret. When I look out the window
I see a house so close I can hear a toilet flush.
At night we take black lights and hunt scorpions
stuck to our stucco walls. I walk around darkening rooms
not in use, but I cannot stop the sun
or streetlights from shining in. We are all aglow.
I don’t want to think about the sun burning
out or the billion small deaths I continue to cause.
Even in the desert, a place whose name I learned
to spell by the sweet treat of its opposite, the extra s
demanding more, even after all these years of genetics,
of rock slides, of canyons cut deep and persistent
as a heart, moths spin in circles toward their stars.
recitals competitions ftcl
volleyball council acads
what am I doing what do I want to do shall I be a master of all tricks and end up with none?
2 weeks ago