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BARBARA F. LEFCOWITZ
Moth
I wouldn't mind returning as a moth.
Not a flamboyant butterfly--the thought
of being caught in a net, my wings dried,
mounted, and displayed at an international
butterfly convention
makes me shudder. Just a plain
brown moth with two desires:
for light and for cloth.
But not any old light; only a flame
or bare bulb. And not any old
fabricated cloth--
no acetate or polyester, no bare fibers,
nothing so worn it tastes bitter and salty.
A carnivore to the core, I'd feast
on wool, the best Shetland ever sheared,
fine wool from the backs of Merinos,
cashmere, alpaca, llama fleece.
Wool from which all fat has been scoured,
tangles and riffraff snipped, the carded fiber
spun, woven, shaped to luxurious sweaters and vests.
Then the banquet--
wings passing through slits
of quilted bags presumed to be tightly zipped,
mouth consuming the clothes
of the most gifted and filthiest rich.
Each night I would suck and bite my fill,
making holes whose ragged edges
resembled the sprouts that poke
from old potatoes, so many holes
more gap remains than sweater
and the once regal jacket looks like a net
for a basketball hoop. I would feed on the fibers
until the first chill, then fly off
without looking back, like the bombardiers
over Dresden, Nagasaki, London, Cologne.
Copyright BARBARA F. LEFCOWITZ
(all rights reserved; To copy or translate this poem, please contact the poet)
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