a poem about moths and omens and unopened wings and residue
(in the blaring sun, this moth rather miraculously appeared next to my watch sometime during the 10 minutes I was swimming in the pool)
a poem cannot be forced ~open~ any
more than the wings of a dead moth:
chalky tease of color, soft orange-hued
underbelly. Eyelidless face of forever
stillness I shield from the September
sun with wrinkled fingers smelling of
popcorn salt and pool water, return
the windswept being to the shade:
half-committed mulch burial. Eyespots
to the sky (an omen of death is, indeed,
an omen of growth). I let the wings
settle so as not to risk their sudden,
unnatural disintegration - to overreach
where the earth demands sacrality.
My stepfather chuckles (not unkindly)
at my hastiness to make a grave, to
keep vigil beside defunct wings - limbs
curled in, stiff as cat whiskers. To weigh
death tickling my palm. Shed scales.
About the Creator
Erin Latham Shea
Assistant Poetry Editor at Wishbone Words
Content Writer + Editor at The Roch Society
Instagram: @somebookishrambles
Bluesky: @elshea.bsky.social
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Comments (2)
This is a beautiful and evocative poem. The imagery is vivid and the language is precise. The juxtaposition of life and death, the fragility of existence, and the cyclical nature of nature are all explored with sensitivity and insight. The speaker's act of caring for the moth, even in its death, is a poignant gesture that speaks to the interconnectedness of all things.
well written