Poem Sunday

Moth (a poem)

Strange to see the ocean in moth.

Blanket and moth and mouth,

It has an odd sound like jelly and surf.

It sticks to my ear like rage —

ringing and suffocating the soft voices I call on the phone.

Moth is a casket woven from spit,

fog moving at the speed of light.

Christ, do you know moth?

It is vast and marsupial —

pulsing blood and milk to feed me in the blind dark

while my eyes, dried against the leather,

try to see the cross, your little carpentry shop

or anything of home.

Moth is so tight — a wedding ring, Wranglers,

a crown — it promises comfort.  One stitch

in the seam and my skin would be inside out — free

only to carry the burden of moth in me

like a virus.  Come inside of me

and I’ll give you moth.

Moth, I write you down.  I scream you

in bloody throat silence watching T.V.,

playing pool by myself, cooking

to fill the refrigerator, reading empty scripture,

sleeping with red:

eyes, tears, anger too tired

to read the clock and know the time that has not passed

through the thin moth protecting me, starving me.

I can see the ocean from this tomb.  Christ,

Moth and I am together alone and still

I would leave if I could roll away this stone.