by Chris Jones
When our moggy brings in moths, she squeaks
through the kitchen, tips between her teeth,
and scoots upstairs to scuff under the bed.
If we find these blow-ins they’re usually dead
though a number dust the floor with tatty wings
or unfurl from sheets like pencil shavings,
furry woodcuts, a lime-green surprise –
still tremulous, and slight enough to fly.
We hold our fluttery palms to the window,
weigh each one’s chances and let go –
though tonight you pinch up slivers of moonlight,
and creatures whirr from room to room
like sooty sparks, or tightly sprung toys
glancing our low-lit angle poise.
We lie in almost solid heat;
these hours you turn with fists and feet
and cup my hand against your side to feel
the shape, the quiver of a beating heel.
Last updated May 02, 2015