there will be martyrs.
“Have you seen the moth?” “Yes.”
“It is dead.” “Yes.”
He trips over her staccato syllables,
the conversation slips. Shatters.
She saw it, self-injected into cold coils
of a bare light over the bath stall.
“You shiver. Are you cold?” “No.”
It is a suicide scene in milk-glass curves,
over her green bathing bucket. She is afraid
of…. Well, but she sees not only the creature
she sees the bulb, an empty mask of energy,
stoic as the moth hung in the hug of death,
body at sharp angle skyward, prisoned by sleeping loops of bright.
Does a moth in daylight dread the unlit surface
as she, the stranger’s hand, the eye’s power?
Is the blaze of emotion a scintillation of fate?
She fears what she desires, luminous, searing delight spells
death, to swim through night air to find stars lit
just five feet over the earth is to ask for devouring, when did you forget it?