When I open the cabinet door at midnight, a moth, its flutter like an airborne seed catchesin the updraft of my lethal hand.
Half of them get away, keepingalive their chances of surviving to the next egg drop. December, I sip tea at the family sink.
Today, the woman across the way tied a black ribbon to a pine. Calmthen as now, I muttered my new mantra,“put aside your hate.” In grocery aisles,
in line at UPS. Sleep is a thing withshovels, Put aside your hate. Moths,bees dying from neonicotinoids.
Get a black suit, he told me years back.You’ll never be at loose ends for weddings or funerals.
The dead don’t care how I look,so long as I say the right words,give their boat a push towardthe night’s dark blossoms.
