Dead Moths
As I sit in bed writing late into the night
in a house that is not my own,
I’m distracted by the moths tapping at my window
like a relentless lover waiting to be let in.
An erratic drumming from their small
fragile wings colliding with tempered glass
then a staccato thud as they hurl themselves
into the yellowish glare emanating from my room.
In the morning, I’ll find their gray bodies
with all three pairs of legs sticking up
where they fell on my windowsill
for the birds to peck at or the wind to carry away.
I realize I could stop this mindless carnage
at any moment by simply turning off the light
(but that would require me to stop writing,
and I know I’m much too selfish to do that).
I want to be drawn to something like the moths
outside my window are drawn to all 40 watts
of my fluorescent lamp. To put it another way,
I want to love more than I should.
I listen to the rhythmless song they make
long into the night, knowing that tomorrow
the bodies of dead moths will be scattered
among the fallen flowers of the dogwood trees.
Interlude at a Traffic Light
Sometimes I forget I’m driving a dead man’s car
and I think, so that’s how it works,
dying longing then forgetting,
everything in its proper place
everyone boxed jarred or pickled
but what I want to know is
when will I start forgetting you?
Because you’ve become quite a nuisance now
always buzzing around my head
like a hummingbird I can never quite catch
and when you’re finally still, I think to myself
I’ve got you now! pointing to an empty spot
in the air shouting, there! and passersby look at me
like I’ve lost my mind, but the grass on your grave
still reminds me of your wild uncut hair
and I still remember the pattern of your sheets,
white maile leaves on green quilted fabric,
and I want to say there, there you are,
in every leaf of grass and every stitch of quilting
saying love, love, I know what you are.
Second Marriage
My father proposed to you
in a Chinese restaurant
on a Friday night.
I imagine it was the one
only a couple blocks
from your house on Lakewood,
the one you went to every week—
my father ordering the same greasy
noodles and chicken drowned
in syrupy sauce
with flecks of oil spilled
on his shirt and a little
at the corner of his mouth.
You remember your first try:
words flung blindly
like rocks in a stream
that rippled the surface
long after he left.
No wonder you didn’t mind
when he didn’t kneel
on that sticky chain restaurant floor.
He just looked across the table and said
in his monotone, matter-of-fact,
textbook reading voice—
we should get married,
and Mother—you already knew
it was coming.
I swear to you now
you will learn to love him.
Originally from San Diego, CA, Rachel Ruggera moved to Boston for the snow (and for college) and likes to ride the metro around for fun. She is currently studying Biology and Environmental Science but also loves to write poetry, short stories, and creative nonfiction. She has no concrete plans for after graduation and is terrified.