Mottephobia

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.