Looked like a butterfly drowning on a wave
But when daughter swam out to the rescue
Showed moth antennae and the heavy,
Hairy body, despite spotted orange wings.
To gratify longing is both the most sensible
And the most self-destructive activity
Possible in this world. The moth clung
To daughter's thumb and dried in the sun.
It climbed up her tanned arm. It struggled
Up her tangled hair. It delighted her.
She brought it inside the cabin, watched it
Stagger around the bed, try out its ripped
Wings. Eventually it got as far as the window
And daughter watched it on the screen.
For her, it was a candidate pet. She fed it
Wildflowers that she lovingly selected,
Probably all the wrong species. She kept it
In a cup with a tissue over it. That night
The moth, still following the same longing
Had kept it struggling on the lake's waves,
That drove it to cling to warm skin, to climb,
To fly at the bright window screen, after
Much noisy thudding against the confines
Of the cup, escaped. Now black, it found
A gap in a window and headed for the moon.
In the morning, daughter cried, distraught.
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