ON LEARNING THE LUNA MOTH HAS NO MOUTH
I have been thinking of the moon again
and the moth named for it
which has no mouth,
how it lives only for a week
after unfurling
from the translucent lime shell
inside which it began
to learn flight
and forget the imperative of hunger,
and I have been thinking
of the ocean
once more,
but not the ocean
and not all the things inside of it
swimming in darkness
with their hungers,
the tiger shark caught and killed and emptied
of two overcoats,
one raincoat,
a driver’s license
and a chicken coop—
no, I was thinking of kelp-swaddled mermaids,
their drowned choir,
their bottle-green skin,
the line at which glittering scales
becomes skin,
becomes human
almost,
and I have been trying to think,
to remember
before sleep
my name and address,
height and weight,
the blue of my eyes
before you swallow me or I you.
5 comments:
I was reading an Irish blog (now based in New Zealand) and the writer had noted a sudden fascination with QuestionSwap.com. You ask your question. You answer a question. Everything is handled anonymously via e-mail.
This recalled to me a poem line of yours: How does one become gruntled?
I sent it to QuestionSwap. Someone, god knows where, responded inside of 10 minutes. The wrote: "Clearly, it's the emotional state you arrive at as you depart being disgruntled." Suspect.
-cK
If only I could remember which poem that's from!
This is lovely.
Thank you.
"the line at which glittering scales
becomes skin,
becomes human
almost,"
what a vivid detail. i love it, really love it!
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