By Jessica Coles1
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.