She’s afraid of spiders, bees,
all things attracted to her skin.
Soon her running will unpin
her chocolate hair where the buzz
of a moth or a fruit beetle
sends her into me and I
crush a little hull or let
it fly away, or rub black
yellow stripes into powder.
The wings of cellophane crack
and sprinkle.
Perhaps somewhere
the sorrows of the moths pooled
are like a watery globe.
Drink from this and the jeweled
sun winking there will paint
your hands, eyes, hair, and lips.
You will be a luminous
second moon and no eclipse
will save you from the ruinous
hands of clocks. The ticking draws
a torrent of tiny wings
to your face. These are the flaws
skin would not smooth. A scar sings
beneath a finger, projects
where the lines of heat wrinkle
and a red dragonfly wrecks
itself on twigs; through the fell
masses of air, bluish, thick
as a brushstroke, it twists down.
Originally published in Cider Press Review, Volume 1.
