By Aaron Handloser
Moth
Image courtesy of uzumewinter (flickr.com)
Winter rubs its moth wings on us:
plucked from the body,
they fall apart.
Leave their silver-lining
dustings on our cheeks.
Those hot swollen things muffle our voice in
a heap of broken images. We’re penitents
in a confessional of snow.
Although no one will climb
beyond the screen
until spring,
we wait for that company.
Winter rubs its moth wings on us:
Silt-filled river sprinkled
all across our clothes.
Paler than before, we
spend minutes counting
hours, watching crossed crooked limbs
crackle in black
against the wind
like they’re burning.
Breathing we
cross crooked limbs
to cover what we’ve left out.
Cold face glows
loudly through the powdered silence.
Image courtesy of beinggreen (flickr.com)
Apathy’s a pretty word
Wetted ash upon my
suit is too.
I don’t shake myself
clean nor beat the
filth loose—
I find the moth-silver
keeps me warm. I
breathe easily now,
and I dance
on the hot glass.
Aaron Handloser is a 17-year-old high school senior living in North Little Rock, Arkansas. He attended the Rhodes College Summer Writing Institute, and is planning on attending AppalachianState University to major in English. After college, he wants to teach high school EnglishLiterature. He enjoys bike rides and long, romantic walks to the fridge.
Great poem!!