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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