i.
i watched a cricket
take three days to die
last summer.
it had lost a leg,
could not escape or sing,
but i did not have the strength
to kill it myself.
[cries for help are always silent
in cheap motels.]

ii.
i told him stories
of lightning bugs searching
for a mate,
flickering in synchrony,
"is it you?is it you?is it you?"
[.it's.not.me.]
but what if your echo
has already met fate
on a highway windshield?

iii.
he told the story
of two bees fighting
mid-air
before dropping at his feet.
in late august,
drones contend for the attentions
of the virgin queen.
death in flight is nobler
than the cold starvation of autumn.

iv.
you told the story
of a moth's attraction to flame,
spiraling obliviously to her demise
unless someone flicks her
back into the darkness.
sometimes, i am your moth.
so often, you swat me away,
but i can't keep
from gravitating to your light.
[you will be the death of me]

v.
i always knew she was beautiful,
but this was her summer
of transformation.
my moth's grey will never
compare to her color.

vi.
we spoke of dungeons
and dragonflies
and the complications
of backbones.
Nature has a way
of making men
so much lovelier
when they have six legs
and wings.

09/19/2002

Posted on 09/19/2002
Copyright © 2024 Meredith C Hartwell