A Moth Story
By Gerry Hill
Ronnie’s first haircut
was not going well.
First he swallowed a moth
thinking it was a sunflower seed.
Then he lit a moth and smoked it
thinking it was half a joint.
Now he swallowed a lock of his own hair
thinking it was a moth.
I remember last night
a woman walked out of the prairie
sat down beside me at the fire
looking for what I call, but she wouldn’t, love.
I said breath she said body.
I said holy she said this hour
and the next one or two
are the only times I don’t feel alone.
I said Are you a moth?
Yes she said loosening what I see now as wings.
Walk lightly as you follow me inside.
All the way into the bedroom, I followed her.
We took turns capturing.
She liked me swatting whatever
my hungry arms could reach
with the Canada Day edition of the Globe & Mail.
Neighbours over the field could hear
the whumps of our persistence
and her husky flutter Now go,
get the flyswatter.
I got to know my own body last night.
She seemed to go up and down on me at the same time
in twenty-four places at once. I swear she meant
mid-air where she wanted me spinning
like I’d had too much to see. I kissed every
direction a wing could fly or a hand open.
I threw myself against two walls then
the same two again glimpsing wildly
the stars and wanting to say o how beautiful
crying only o as someone’s arm smashed
the light to pieces
and in the darkness o
clear and gentle darkness
she lies still my lips
tasting grey.
Gerald Hill is our man in Regina.
Published On: February 14, 2008
Permanent Location: http://www.forgetmagazine.com/080214r.htm
|
