All night the moth beats across the pane
chasing the moon as we hurtle along the track.
I try to guide it out, but it fights my palms
hurtles, itself, backwards into black.
Then I notice, glistening on thumb’s heel
powdered pearl – moth dust –
Moths escape webs by shedding scales
but one spider weaves a hanging tube
to guide the rush of the moth’s frantic fall
till all powder shed, at the end it’s trapped
by naked, ragged wings –
(your hands shine at the end of the day)
(your arms tunnel a headlong rush)
My hands in the train racket glisten with pearl.
The moth beats the window, frantic for the moon.
I testi inglesi di Pandora, Birthday Tales, The Moth sono desunti dalla raccolta Paper Affaires e pubblicati per gentile concessione dell’autrice (copyright Susan McMaster)