by Aracelis GirmayMoths, moths, this is our shelter, what one of our kind made for another of our kind. That light is not a moon. But an invention. It keeps us safe from stumbling up the walk or helps us to see what it is at the door. In the morning your bodies, shavings of flight, here & there, having surrendered. You were always dying in my sleep. & I, your last neighbor. Before I take the brown broom gently to your body, I see your once-was. With care, I study your eyes. It is my job.
