Near the end of June all the colors collapsed
At once, the lilac’s purple bleeding to gray
Beneath a moist, young moon. A low buzz passed
Overhead, a streak in the dying light of day.
Keen with desire, I followed that telltale song.
Olive and pink, it hovered in the bower,
Vibrating its halo, and dipped its long tongue,
Volute and voluptuous, into a flower.
Or later, in autumn, when there came a freeze,
Killing my mother’s flowers all at once,
One could sugar for moths by painting the trees
Black with molasses, slathered across their trunks.
Ablaze in the light of my lantern, they would feed,
Not knowing how their hunger fed my need.
First published in Think: A Journal of Poetry, Fiction, and Essays