"Luna Moth"
My father was a green-eyed drifter.
I was conceived five blocks from a battle-
ship gray ocean, between a beer joint
and a sexless church. The only time
he stayed beyond the waning moon
was when she presented her belly—large,
white and waxing. He became a luna moth,
ear pressed to her navel, listening to my first
words, my first steps. He knew what they had
done but didn’t last beyond the following
crescent. Men are moths driven to the round
bulbs of women under God’s white eye.
My husband returns from another trip
selling nuts and bolts. We lie together, slippery
otters. I have waited a week for this
orange glow, the hairs rising on my body.
I see a new moon through the shutters
over his shoulder. Next time, he promises,
he will bring tart baking apples from the Empire State.
I show him my breasts. We become migrant workers
with pulse-lightning skin. I tuck us in with cinnamon
and watch as he sleeps. I’d like to watch moths
compete for candle flames but I must rest.
Tomorrow is a workday and my beloved will be
a hundred miles away. I will be in the arms of a man
who sells cherry furniture to tourists and quilts
sewn from the torn scraps of children’s outgrown
clothes. A moth will follow me through trees
with green-eyes to his house and back.
© 2005 Laurie Byro
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