The Moth, by Adam O’Riordan

29 June 2014

landed between paper tiger and paperweight
on the open dictionary, just short of papillon.
A natural under the spotlight
which must have drawn it from the night’s
hot lung towards its sixty watts of promise.
Perfect, the disciplined pulse of its wings:
two coffee-stained teeth and all the grace

of your grandmother in her wedding dress.
Which you will know from the message I left.
But I didn’t mention the tipulidae, the chironomidae,
that I’d had to kill the lights and I’m sitting
on a bed too small to contain your absence,
listening to something the size of a small bird
ricocheting off the walls, clicking like a stuck tape.

[Read in In the Flesh, published by Chatto Poetry. Ripped from Gists and Piths.]


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