Issue 2



Catherine McGuire


To a Pesky Moth

You get lost in my living room,
veer from couch to coffee steam to me,
in search of some ruby clover long since
scraped away from this ground.

The angles of the house confuse you –
hovering, darting, weaving drunkenly,
stopping a moment because the cobalt blue
of my mug could be a flower or fruit.

But no. You jerk away, even dare
to flap in my face a while
as if to ask directions. What can I say?

Bronze and gray wisp, plain jane bug –
I’ve felt that lost, a world away
from where I want to be. I can’t squash you –
I have enough extinction on my soul.
Find what you can.

A moment later, I lift my mug
and find you floating – drawn by the scent
or steam, you’ve flavored my coffee
with your passing. The old hungers don’t mesh
with extruded innovations; we are tangled
and dying of confounded instincts.