Mottephobiaby Chris Kobylinsky
One morning the white moth lay motionless,
A shining white rumpled tissue of flesh
On the white vinyl of the windowsill.
Stuck between the black screen,
Blacker by night,
And the unachievable electric light;
Tapping upon the teasing glass pane,
Repelled by its own ghastly reflection
As the ticking hours passed.
And I am like that little moth,
Unswaddled from the comforts of the chrysalis,
Alone to flutter in search of luster in darkness—
A little dappled lily petal,
Pulled and plucked to wheel against
The designless breeze.
How the beckoning beacon of the hooked moon
Was too untranscribable
For a blank page like me.
And so I lived a proboscis existence,
Sucking the sap and the sweet nectar dry,
As moonbeams bleached tree, branch, and fallen leaf.
I too have longed (and floundered) to light upon a light,
To be draped in the air like a flower in a mutual hand,
And bathe in the brilliance of phototropic delight.
I’d rather be a crust of lichen stuck upon some bark
Like a lusty snowflake-sigil of symbiotic bliss
Than to have to justify dark-in-light and light-in-dark.
The white moth lies hushed in the morning light,
A tousled blanket on an empty bed,
No longer keeping one warm from the night.
Chris Kobylinskyis studying English literature as a graduate student and working as a teaching assistant at Western Connecticut State University. He has been a writer of prose, poetry, and poppycock for as long as he can remember. His writing is not only inspired by his many literary heroes—such as Shakespeare, Homer, Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, and Gerard Manley Hopkins—it is also inspired by the rustic pastures, the stone wall–laced willowwacks, and the abandoned silos of New England. Chris has recently completed his first young adult novel.