I caught moths in my childhood; sticky veined puffs
that left grey blood on the careful skin of my fingers.
Each one was given a Tupperware home and branches,
eucalyptus or willow, to hang upon in daytime stupor.
They seemed to need nothing but air and my eyes pressed
to their window. While I watched they'd twitch as though
breezes made their way through each brittle body hair.
Each one, cradled fragile at the base of my nostrils, smelled
of old leather and peaches. Some I kept no more than a
single day – enough time to catalogue their patterns and
stretch of antennae, how quickly they could climb from
wainscotting to lintel when a light shone at angles from the
ceiling. Others were in my keeping until I clicked back their
lids to find shrunken velvet skeletons, over which I wept
and buried in mournings of dirt amongst our Baby's Breath.
My mother asked why I didn't catch butterflies, with their
make-up like switchboard lights, and I said moths were
the only ones who lived in those dark places we know.