The Dead Moth (poem)

Yellow and purple, a bruise
atop the shortgrass. Near the oak
where a thick green caterpillar

fell grassward last fall
like a wish blown to wild chance.

The same, perhaps.

Or perhaps not.

The wind doesn’t care. It ruffles
the furry abdomen, twitches the wings

in a mockery of flight, the still body
now more like a strange seed.
Its wish, maybe, all along.


Thanks to Shot Glass Journal for including this poem in Issue 29. 

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