i opened the cupboard and it was full of moths.
tiny folded wing slivers, scattered like birth marks, or constellations or
each day a few more plastered themselves
like eyes around the kitchen, they witness
my wilting, they see
all of it.
the moths multiply, they speak to me, they started as pests but
i am so lonely that i don't want them to leave.
they say the cicadas will come this summer, cover the city in glittering beetle shell,
and in the fall, they say they may