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Mama Mada
The Moths
by Mary No o nan
The artist is sitting, perfectly still,
by his mulberry tree, watching
it. He has been in that pose all day.
The white moths have flown
through my open window,
drawn by the light of a bedside lamp.
They are everywhere – cloaking
the walls, sleeping in the folds of sheets,
crawling over the shoes on the floor.
I try to flatten some with newspaper
but they are too many, and I lie down
among them. Soon, they cover me,
their anaemic wings lining the creases
of my eyelids, lashes thrumming
to the sound of a thousand tiny wings
flicking. In the bed, I rustle. Moths are
spinning from hairs, slinking over the skin
of my scalp and pubis. I lie in a rictus.
In the morning, I walk on a flittered
bridal veil of wings, from bed to bathroom.
I pass the artist. He is sitting
by the fish tank, watching his black
piranha slip through cool water,
behind glass. Has he been there all night?
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