The moon pretends you are a moth. It
tells you one precise secret each month.
Precision is a blade of grass trimmed
using mandibles you learned how to
construct out of wood chips and chicken
wire on YouTube. You know moths don’t
have mandibles. You uncurl your tongue
to lap the syrup from a pansy’s yellow
heart. You think the moon looks purple
when it tells you secrets. Someone you
still love knows the symbolism of purple
moons. Moths’ wings dust your tongue with
fragments of months. Moonlight scatters
the secret of impermanence like grass
clippings on the sidewalk. The moth
pretends it is you, a yellow moon, a
curled tongue laden with secrets.
By Jessica Coles (Line breaks mine)