Von Aegir Literary
Moths
EMMA DEIMLING
the moths have bled themselves again, color leeched
pale in the glow pooling in the streetlight,
unmoving wings cocooned inside the light’s plastic
cover. you reach towards them, the past
staining your fingertips like pollen. if you try hard enough,
you can feel their bodies, wish you could cup them in your hands,
bury them next to the stale apologies on your lips.
the streetlight flickers, blinks. the concrete is crumbled
and wet from the summer rains, the parking lot hollowed
out of cars that in the morning will
bloat the faded lines with bumpers
and car horns. you lay your head
against the streetlight, let your memories drift.
more moths fly closer, ever
closer, the gleam in their eyes
as fleeting as your smile. you could never hold
your smile in your hands. you’ve tried, tried to place it
in her palms, but it was so cracked and
blistered with frowns that it crumbled in her fists.
a moth scrapes across your cheek,
wings shivering against your fingertips.
you shiver. wet your lips.
reach for the light. the moths
keep coming, crawling over the light
until there is nothing but empty shells
littering the parking lot.
pale in the glow pooling in the streetlight,
unmoving wings cocooned inside the light’s plastic
cover. you reach towards them, the past
staining your fingertips like pollen. if you try hard enough,
you can feel their bodies, wish you could cup them in your hands,
bury them next to the stale apologies on your lips.
the streetlight flickers, blinks. the concrete is crumbled
and wet from the summer rains, the parking lot hollowed
out of cars that in the morning will
bloat the faded lines with bumpers
and car horns. you lay your head
against the streetlight, let your memories drift.
more moths fly closer, ever
closer, the gleam in their eyes
as fleeting as your smile. you could never hold
your smile in your hands. you’ve tried, tried to place it
in her palms, but it was so cracked and
blistered with frowns that it crumbled in her fists.
a moth scrapes across your cheek,
wings shivering against your fingertips.
you shiver. wet your lips.
reach for the light. the moths
keep coming, crawling over the light
until there is nothing but empty shells
littering the parking lot.
Emma Deimling currently works as a writing tutor at the Ohio State University’s writing center. She has been published in numerous magazines, the most recent being in Anamorphoseis Magazine. She lives in Columbus, Ohio. You can find her on Twitter @EmmaDeimling.
