Moth of Knives
Are you the dark brown one
of the sweet-smelling soil,
the solitary thorn who eats the tender leaves?
How do I call you in to me
without making you in my own image?
O lover, your spines are my instruments.
Come, I have a gift of pine needles,
and sap like a knob of golden glass.
Let animal night play its lonely song.
I will collect spoor notes in bracken ferns,
carry them through the terrible woods,
like a child moving through fever.
Each step, moth of knives,
I will stalk you with love,
my candle an invitation.
We’ll lie down in the aspen leaves,
embrace the poetry of our relation.
You will whisper to me your secret words,
each like a berry I must suck.
I shall love you just this once,
the moon like an old man’s sleeping eye;
no witness to our coupling.
Source: FreeFall Magazine, Vol. XXII No. 1, Winter 2012