by Melissa Eleftherion
I am trying to understand you, moth
Your brown blink of dun fur dotted white buzzing
You, dead on my office floor
You, taunting me on the house porch
Who do you carry?
The Internet tells me you bear a skull on your thorax
But I see a smiling pig snout as if you welcomed the down and out and muddy
Do I know you? Did we meet on the beached fishing boat in Monterosso?
I sense you have a message transcending statistical data
We are both honey-named short proboscis Medusas
Larvae for the undercurrent’s meat
Pierce the wax, damage the fruit
The myth of my Italian heritage says I may have the malocchia
To be stalked by a death’s head moth
To be stalked by wings I must carry a horn
Stout tongue of the stigma
If the oil forms an eye, your fur is mine
Myth says moths are dead souls
Your body was as intact as a specimen
As I set you in the wastebasket
Where is the apparition you’ve been carrying?
I want to talk to her.