a poem about moths and omens and unopened wings and residue

a poem cannot be forced ~open~ any

more than the wings of a dead moth:

chalky tease of color, soft orange-hued

underbelly. Eyelidless face of forever

stillness I shield from the September

sun with wrinkled fingers smelling of

popcorn salt and pool water, return

the windswept being to the shade:

half-committed mulch burial. Eyespots

to the sky (an omen of death is, indeed,

an omen of growth). I let the wings

settle so as not to risk their sudden,

unnatural disintegration - to overreach

where the earth demands sacrality.

My stepfather chuckles (not unkindly)

at my hastiness to make a grave, to

keep vigil beside defunct wings - limbs

curled in, stiff as cat whiskers. To weigh

death tickling my palm. Shed scales.