Life of a Luna Moth
Another shot of whiskey.
The moon blurs through
a row of baobabs,
standing like soldiers
with shaggy, afro helmets.
Gentle swaying of leaves
beckons a lone luna moth,
her powder soft wings brushed with light.
I watch through glazed eyes.
Heavy with life
she whispers past each tree,
taking her time,
listening
for the branch that chants the message
we all wait to hear.
I don’t bother to adjust
the bra strap slipping down
a brown shoulder.
I light a cigar and wonder
why it happens this way.
A week or a life,
searching,
loving,
regretting,
giving,
reproducing,
lasts as long as the flavor
in a piece of chewing gum.
No mouth to sing a thread of pleasure.
No voice to express contentment.
We accept the game for what it is
and remember
the beginning,
the cocoon,
the moon,
and the Luna Moth
Copyright © Janet Lorenzo | Year Posted 2016
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