Moth

by Eleanor Kendrick

moth,
you silkflutter at my window,
amberdust wings in a flurry of hope,
legs and arms tangle, scramblescraping
at the stoneblack glass,
shivering across the loose-slip surface
no foothold, crack or nook to stop.
 
moth,
my cruel reflection thrown over you
and flung into the night at the stars
(where you should be, throfting milk-white at the moon)
stares through me black and cold and clangs,
for I’m goose-guilty of this sly deception: for me
the light clucked on and spread its beamy fingers out
to you, and beckoned lithely through the dark.
 
moth,
you tint and tut and thub and thud again,
again, against the blot-strong glass, you ram
and butt your blunt flat head, and bleed mothblood,
and pulp yourself to death – for nothing
but a humming siren, pulsing
fools-gold lovebeams at the night.