Mrs. Moth, you are
So beautiful. Your tender, smooth
Skin is like temptation on the wing.
Your large, dark eyes draw me
And your long, pale waif-like legs are poised
And still.
Mrs. Moth, where is your other half,
Astaroth? Ah, you have shifted angle.
Mrs. Moth, you delight me.
The sight of you sends me into a tizzy –
The way your torso or your
Abdomen grows slender, slender still –
The curve of your thorax is eternal.
There is an air of charm as you
Sit naked on the side of my bookshelf.
You are fair, my dear- fairly greyish brown
Like a Caribbean dancer, bathed in ashes.
I see glowing embers
Of attachment, of desire,
In those large, black, empty eyes.
How can I resist you?
Why do you persist?
Do you like books?
You sit beside
Campbell’s "The Hero with a Thousand Faces",
Nassim Taleb’s "The Black Swan"
And "The Great Works of Somerset Maugham".
You are an enigma –
Why do you deny your involvement
With my world?
Mrs. Moth, beloved, large being,
The frightening size of my thumb,
My index, and middle fingers
Combined, I point to you,
And I ask you why
You should enter my bedroom.
I am vulnerable to your charm –
You make me feel old and guilty,
And weak and fallen and reeling.
I swish my pillow left and right
So I can send some wind
And my regards in your direction.
But you are very big and developed.
And I cannot help but stare at your
Demonic waxen wings and wonder
What I have come to.
