DEAD MOTH BLUES
Moths fall and crawl, then die outside your door.
Sometimes they look like tiny folded fans,
their spots and coloration all the more
attractive than they seem when one moth lands
on one bright bulb or on some somber flame.
You came home from some outing in your youth
and there on your doormat — unclaimed, unnamed –
a dead moth lay. Your body knew the truth:
the world had changed. You copped to this somehow.
Now years have changed. You understand the deal.
Your feet take heed, they don’t dare fail you now;
they wipe themselves. They know how death is real.
Threshholds and backdoors, icy beams, soft cloths
– they all go missing. Caterpillars. Moths.
Al Young
Copyright © 2006 and 2008
(from Something About the Blues: An Unlikely Collection of Poetry)
