Five Moths
By Carly Joy Miller
Moons on the upper visual
field. I replay many springs
for their ripening
heat. Five limb in
me: Ornate, Greased,
Codling, Luna,
Death’s-head.
Two supernatural, three
balance need. I feed on fat
apples, pears:
Tunnel
toward center, a
heaven
in the core. Instinct
attempts to correct
with a turn
toward light.
My dress
a brief
darkness. Flits
there. Another set
of wings to tear.
Spiral me in the silk
of my tongue.
Farm
what is
economical
in me: Blood for blood,
heart for snare.
Scent, sweet
air: My cedar,
hung juniper, lavender
cross: What holds the body
keeps the body blesses the body’s
lack.
Is that not a blessing?
What blooms in me:
Trouble. Trouble.
Trouble.
So I consume. So I feed
what festers.
When navigating artificial
light, the angle changes
noticeably. Angle strict, beloved:
My head a mess of moon.
