GYPSY MOTH
His flapping disturbs my study, soiled
wings
on the lamp’s milky glass. His only
language
is chemical, and lacks the molecules
to warn him that his ashes would not stir
in my windless room. The bulb’s white-hot
core
calls him by name. I understand his
thrashings,
scraping my pencil across a white page
to reach the fire of words rubbed
together.
I try to ignore him, but he keeps on
thumping.
When I was eight I watched an older girl
undressing at her window. Golden lamps
anointed her skin and smudge of hair.
Drawn
by unfamiliar heat, my mind throbbed
against her panes. Now I am driven to
heave
headlong against a woman’s body,
straining
to break through to a glory at her
center.
Frenetic gypsy, if I could make you see
how the light would eat you alive, would
you stop trying
to hurl yourself on its altar? Or try
harder?
Those who’ve returned tell how their
souls were drawn
to an irresistible Light. Here we look
through clouded glass, and flail the air
with voices
crying out to any Name we know.
I lay the pencil aside, my concentration
trampled by his tiny turbulence –
shedding their dust, those wings beat and
beat.