Moths
By Jessica Orr
What's it like?
Mothers know
the boarding call;
dancers know the strain,
there is misery
and there is a pattern,
after,
it's in your face
and it is accepted,
as no place
no eternity,
is ever large enough
to portray playing
as asunder.
I don't understand
A nail and seal
upon a blooming place,
All along once we were,
and parcels expel
and eyes wander;
building sets in
thinking diseased,
and make crashes
in roses
and cool water
feels me-
I
am
deep red,
I am the dripping
of seeing me,
I am all those things
You thought
And no matter
The dripping,
You go faster
And you think more
of what I did tomorrow
In your mind
and I will be nothing
On the night
as I am amongst flowers...
Push through,
searching fragrances,
Pulling up moist dirt
and the same
and the shame of planting
seeds in accord
to instructions:
rows of roses, next
to annuals and
don't forget the fall
as he wants to stay warm.
So future casts,
and I've saw it,
it was a revival;
it is the lock-step of 2,
You feel down
Teeth are tight,
fists in nails in your skin;
never, never
the same;
I hum,
moths pattern again-
flutter flutter,
I am soft again
and I love you...
too.
I am your hands,
I am watered and sweet
and I can close my eyes
when in rain and storm;
I am strained
I am his creation,
I pray in sun,
I live
and accept my fate.