moths
i told you that my boyfriend 
was the one who taught 
me to feed moths 
to spiders. 
that was a lie. 
it was me,
i showed him. it was
my game. 

i cupped
my hands in the porch lights 
& trapped 
the fluttering insects.

i hated moths & the dust 
that comes off their wings
when they're scared. i felt
them desperate in my cage,
a paper heart,
a bowl of eyelashes. 
i think of it as cruel now
but in the moment there 
is a certain rush of life
that comes when you feed 
one animal to another.
i imagine it's the same 
for people who drop rats
into snake cages.

my boyfriend was an expert 
at cultivating me.
i called him on the phone
every morning 
& every night. a web grew in 
my mouth, the spiders,
returning to the porch afterwards 
to knit more traps.

i have practiced the art
of letting a lover use me.

from the porch
through the window
i saw my parents in the kitchen
slicing carrots for stew.
you caught a moth with 
white wings & marvelous green eyes
& asked me if it was
too big for the spiders.
i said "no" & you tossed
the moth like a baby bird
right into the tangle.

we watched side by side.
it was romantic. the spider
struggling to wrap the huge moth.
the moth staring at us,
as if we were its parents.
the moth asking us aloud
what it had done wrong
as the spider circled its
body with more bondage. 

i flinched 
& scratched my arm.
i had wanted to intervene
& free her. the spider couldn't
eat the whole moth so it 
moved on to a smaller more 
manageable fly in the web. 

he hugged 
me from behind & kissed
the side of my face.

i told him to open
his mouth. he did, hesitant
as he was. his teeth 
glowed in the yellowish
porch light. 

i turned into
a moth & flew inside.