Katrina Kaye

When I met you, I fell in love 
with flight, with candle light, 
and open windows. From the safety  

of your late lit bedroom, 
I watched rain as it ate the earth, 
leaving soft teeth marks  

in the dirt of your gardens. I hear 
the moths come every seven years, 
but sometimes it seems  

like they are always here, flittering 
against door frame in praise 
of porch light. We don’t always  

  forget the way we are supposed to, 
nor do we remember the way 
the seasons would like us  

to believe. I crawled upon your hand 
on fine legs, wing brushing palm, 
steadying myself as you peered  

through the brown spots on my wings. 
You did not crush me or push me 
away. My wings against  

your open hand; you let me stay 
as long as I needed, did not protest 
when I took again to the air.  

I can’t remember why I loved you 
but I can’t forget that I did. 
It’s been over twenty years  

since you slapped into my screen door 
In all those years you always made me  
feel loved, noble, worthy  

just by meeting my gaze. 
It has been six years since 
you died, but I swear I have seen  

the moths more than once since then. 
They flutter on the window beside 
my late-night lingering, reminding me  

of the early hours we shared 
before the sun approached. We had 
our season; nothing left unsaid or undone.  

  Soon the moths will return, 
reminding me that you were once 
a light I could not resist.  

“Reminding” is previously published in Pa’lante (2022).

Find this poem and many others in my most recent collection: All It Is.

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