Moth

 

I have burnt for you so long
that I am a crippled ash pulp, limp—
a moth that went up like a paper wick.
I knew no other way
than to fly straight into you.
...

I regret nothing at the airport
with my backpack slung, bloated,
wearing the last of my clothes.
At the hotel I left you unread letters,
a bed unmade, stains and candy
wrappers in the twisted sheets, and heat.
But you didn’t come back.
I could wait for you to leave,
to attract another moth, to flicker
for him while your wax is still a candle
and not pooled and distended,
burned to middle-age;
but it’s more tragic for me to watch
you diminish than to self-immolate
inside of you. You. You,
that burns so bright in her youth!
They will come. A long line of moths—
werewolves, cops, blacks, Hispanics,
users, dopers, drunks, and sweethearts.
A rich man with shiny new things
to give you a white baby with big blue eyes,
who you can name Cash.
I have nothing left to give you
that you want or don’t own. I am nothing—
merely a moth through a cold, cold night,
made to navigate birds and bats.
As though meant for nothing else.
To feed them, or feed the flames.
My skin is aging, hair graying, thinning,
back slumping, mind spiraling.
But I have this big fat heart you flouted.
This monstrous pulp that erupts and forms
beautiful islands that will not be inhabited
until long after I am gone.
My way was straight into your flame
and I am the crippled ash pulp
lying in your beautiful wax.
I went up like a paper wick.
But did you see how brightly
for you I burned?