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Luna Moth
By Anna V. Q. Ross

On the coast of Maine she has forgotten
the answer to yes. Last winter

the cottage faucet rusted open
and now the tide will not leave the bay,

insistently nursing at the rocks
and pilings. She is exhausted by such damp

crawlings, by what is no longer turning
inside her. Mollusced and silent,

she walks a pine needle courtyard,
absolved of footprints. There is no

depth now, only an eloquence
of wind and drift. At night

she stretches stilled wings
beneath the yellowed porch light.

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Document last modified on: 08/19/2002

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