Moth

In the quaking hours,
She folds the soft brown wing
And waits in linen gauze
That shuts out the darkness.
Heavy-lidded, she listens,
Watches as they duel.
She can make no sense of this.
So she cuts a hole, here,
Lets a little moon shine through.

Called upon now
She takes wing,
Careful to avoid straight lines
And the direct gaze
That might burn through
Her shadow camouflage.
It is nothing.
But they have everything —
Every last thing
That she could want.

Take care now.
Do not let them see
How deeply
You long to burn.
She wends her solitary way
Back to the dawn branches
And folds her wings against the pine bark.
Hidden here,
She can keep it close,
This secret hunger.

If they knew
She was not flightless,
They might turn them upon her —
Those flamelike eyes —
And dissect her with language.

But as it always is,
She cannot resist.
She flies toward them,
Afraid.
In their reckless lightness,
Their casual and their calm,
They will turn her to ashes
Smoking in the dawn.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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