Moths by Ash Watson
Moths
there are moths inside our garage
about six or so, grey additions
hiding out from the rain
are they wasps’ nests I ask, preparing to wreck
these diy cerith shells
clinging to cement
no, you say, moths
it’s a gentle let down – my voice gave away
my eagerness to gift a micro bravery
this month I am determined to show you my use
the fact of their wings leaves me emptyhanded
fingernails clean
you have better eyes than me (though you disagree)
memory of my father’s swollen thumb, stung, recedes
the next day there are twelve of them
I like moths less
harmless bitter fragile
flighty creatures
I feel them in my mouth
the same way birds leave me
dirty, dusty
it rains harder and at night
the moths keep flooding in
a thick throng of wings, beating
in the mornings we check them – I insist
we go with bare feet, the wet pavers
slippery
on Saturday I take the rubbish out with us
and there are one million moths in the garage
more moths in the garage than stars
they eat the car
they become one
a flying moth ball spinning
I convulse
the dirty, dusty magic
moths, you say
and I am useless
Executive Producers
Sue White
Daniel Henson
